The Paradise War (55 page)

Tegid continued to dance along the walltop to where I was standing with the king. “The enemy is defeated! Your kingdom is free of their defilement. Will you put aside your geas and speak to your people now, Great King?” he asked.

But the king raised his tearstained face and beckoned his bard close. Tegid inclined his ear to the king’s mouth, whereupon the bard raised his hands and called out to all gathered on the wall below it. “People of Prydain!” he cried. “Hear the words of your king: This day is our enemy defeated. This night we will celebrate the victory in the king’s hall. Three days we will feast and take our rest; but on the fourth day, we will leave this place and return to our homes in the lowlands.”

Then the king left the wall and returned to his chambers. I watched as he walked alone across the yard. Prince Meldron and Paladyr approached him as he neared the entrance to the hall. The king stopped and turned stiffly to meet them. The three stood together for a moment. I could not hear what was said, but I saw Prince Meldron make a quick, violent gesture toward the open gate. The king stared at his son for a moment, then turned away without reply and proceeded to the hall. The prince and Paladyr then hastened away; they passed from my sight beneath the wall, and I did not see them anymore.

The preparations for the feast continued all through the day. The sun remained bright and the clouds disappeared, and we began to believe that Gyd, the fairest of seasons, had at last returned to Prydain. After bleak Sollen’s endless reign, we had feared the world would never more enjoy the bounty of the sun. Accordingly, we reveled in the warmth as we went about our chores.

I searched for Simon—Siawn Hy—both inside and outside the wall, but could not find him in the general bustle to make ready the celebration. All too soon the sunlight faded to dusk, and the chill of night returned. It was with great reluctance that we kindled the torches in Findargad’s hall at dusk, even though it meant that the feast could begin. As I stood in the throng outside the hall, waiting to enter, I thought I saw Siawn standing among the warriors of the prince’s Wolf Pack. But by the time I had worked my way over to the place, they had gone inside and I lost him again.

Sweet mead shone rich and golden in the countless cups that circled the king’s hall. The hearthfire leapt high and the torches and rushlights burned bright, and we drank to victory and the vanquishing of foes in the shimmering firelight. Everyone—warriors and men, maidens and wives, children and babes—everyone joined in the celebration. We ate and drank and sang. How we sang! The night was transformed into a beautiful praise song, a glittering gem of gladness and thanksgiving to the Swift Sure Hand for our deliverance.

And when we had eaten and drunk enough to make us merry, and sung the songs of liberation, Tegid called for the king’s throne to be brought into the hall. A number of warriors hastened to the king’s chamber, took up the throne, and carried it on their shoulders into the hall. Whereupon the king, looking more like the Meldryn Mawr I had first encountered—all glittering and golden in his finery—with little evidence of his recent illness, took his place at the head of his hall and, with wide sweeps of his arms, motioned for all the people to gather and draw near.

Because of his vow, the king did not speak outright but directed the gathering through the voice of his bard. Tegid relayed the king’s words, saying, “Tonight, while the light of life burns in us, it is right to sing and dance our delight in the victory we have been granted. But let us pause to remember our kinsmen who lost their lives to Nudd.”

At this, Tegid began to sing a lament for the dead. It was a well-known lament, and he was not more than a few words into the song when everyone in the hall joined in. I did not know the song, but it was as beautiful as it was sorrowful, and heartbreakingly sad. I could not have sung; just to hear it, my eyes filled with tears and my throat swelled so that I could hardly breathe.

Others wept, too, their eyes shining with tears in the torchlight as they sang. When the song was finished, silence filled the hall. The last notes lingered long in the empty places. After a time, the king leaned again to his Chief of Songs, and Tegid said, “We have remembered the honorable dead as it is right to do. Now let us pay homage to the living who have earned the hero’s portion with their feats of courage and valor.”

To my amazement, the first name called was my own. “Llyd, come to the throne.”

A way opened before me through the crowd, and I stepped forward hesitantly. I was aware, once again, of the stares my appearance provoked and the hushed exclamations of astonishment. But why? Had I changed so much? The king beckoned me to stand before him; whereupon he removed a gold ring from his finger and held it out to me. I reached out to take it, and he grasped me by the wrist and turned me to face the crowd.

“You, above all men, are to be honored this night,” Tegid said, speaking loudly so that he could be heard by all. “At great danger and sacrifice, you brought the enchanted stones from their hiding place and conceived the plan by which they might be used to defeat our enemy. Without the stones we could never have prevailed against Nudd and his demon brood of Coranyid. Therefore, receive the gratitude of your king.”

The Great King stood and, still holding my wrist, raised my hand high before the close-gathered throng. Taking the ring, he slipped it onto my finger. I saw torchlight glinting in a thousand watching eyes and heard the undercurrent of amazement buzzing through the hall. Again I felt the eerie and unaccountable sensation that people were awed by my appearance.

I had no time to wonder over this. Tegid lifted his hands, palms outward in declamation, and loudly proclaimed, “Let it be known that your king has set a high value upon your skill and courage. From this night you are champion to the king. In recognition of this honor, henceforth are you named Llew. Let all men greet you thus from this time forth: Hail, Llew, Champion to the King!”

“Llew! Llew!” the people cried in fervent reply. Indeed, they seemed eager to respond. “Hail, Llew! King’s Champion!” Their voices filled the hall from hearthstone to rooftree, and I trembled within myself: Llew, the name of Albion’s savior, was now my name. What the Banfáith had predicted was coming to pass.

Had I known what Tegid was contemplating, I would have prevented him—and I was not the only one. For, as I took my place at the king’s right hand, I chanced to see Paladyr standing aloof, clearly furious at the staggering insult that had been paid him. Nor did I blame him. For Paladyr had been deposed as champion without being given the chance to defend his exalted position; he was disgraced before his kinsmen and swordbrothers. A greater humiliation could not have been contrived for him.

Other gifts were given out—brooches and gemstones and armbands of silver and gold. Other names were lauded, other deeds acclaimed. I saw little of it, and heard less. My mind whirled, desperately trying to discover a way to dissuade Paladyr from challenging me to single combat in an attempt at reclaiming his position. He would move heaven and earth to restore his honor—it was worth his life and more. A warrior without honor suffered shame worse than death. Indeed, I entertained no hope at all that he would ignore the slight: his pride was greater than the king’s, and Meldryn Mawr’s held all Albion in its sway.

So I stood beside the king—in Paladyr’s place—frantically searching for a way to disentangle myself from this grim, and likely fatal, predicament. I looked over the throng in the hall, hoping to catch fresh sight of the king’s former champion; but I could not see him. Still, I imagined I could feel his seething wrath—like a bonfire fanned by a gale, burning wild, out of control.

When the last warrior had been summoned and the last gift given, King Meldryn ordered the celebration to continue. The instant I saw my chance, I grabbed Tegid by the arm. “Why have you done this to me?”

“I did nothing,” he told me flatly. “It is the king’s privilege to choose a new champion and to name him. He has done so. And I find no fault in the choice.”

“Paladyr will kill me! He will have my head on his spear. You must speak to the king.”

“This is a supreme honor. It is your right; you have earned it.”

“I do not want it! Take it back!”

Tegid made a sour face. “I do not understand you, Llew.”

“I am
not
Llew” I growled. “I want no part of it! Do you understand?” “It is too late,” he said, glancing away.

“Why?”

“Paladyr—he is coming.”

Striding toward us through the slowly dispersing crowd came Paladyr. He wore no expression, but his eyes were alive with anger. I braced myself and turned to meet him. He stopped before me, glowering. Before I could open my mouth to offer a word of conciliation, he placed a hand to my chest and shoved me aside. The people saw this and halted where they stood; no one moved, no one breathed. The hall grew instantly silent.

Paladyr continued to the foot of the king’s throne and threw himself down before it. Meldryn Mawr gazed upon the prostrate man impassively. Tegid hurried to the king’s side and, after a quick consulation, said, “What do you seek by coming before your king in this way?”

The former champion remained facedown before the throne; not a muscle twitched. The king whispered to Tegid, who nodded and addressed the prostrate warrior. “Rise, Paladyr,” the bard said. “If you have something to say, stand on your feet and speak it out.”

At this, Paladyr rose to stand before the king. He appeared humble, but not altogether humiliated, as he stretched forth his empty hands to the king. “What wrong do you lay on my head that I should be thrust aside in this way?”

“Do you suggest that your king has treated you unfairly?” Tegid asked.

“I demand to know why I have been cast aside,” he replied sullenly.

“It is not your place to demand, Paladyr,” the bard observed. “It is your place to obey. Nevertheless, the king is mindful of your loyal service, and for this reason he will answer you.”

“Answer, then,” Paladyr said, barely containing himself. “But I would hear it from the king’s mouth—not yours, bard.”

Meldryn Mawr inclined his head toward Tegid, who bent to hear him, then straightened and said, “By reason of the king’s geas, this cannot be. But hear the king’s word and receive it, if you will. Thus says your king: those who serve me must remain true to me, and to me alone. You, Paladyr, were first in loyalty. So long as your fealty remained true, you were champion to the king. But you put your loyalty aside when you chose to follow Prince Meldron. Therefore, I have put you aside.” Tegid paused. “Your king has spoken.”

These words seemed to have great effect on the man. Instantly, he appeared humble and contrite. “This rebuke is hard, O King,” he said. “But I accept your judgment; only allow me to swear again the oath of fealty and pledge again my loyalty.”

King Meldryn nodded slowly, and Paladyr stepped forward, his head low, his arms limp. He sank to his knees before the throne and fell upon the king in a great show of repentance and remorse. He placed his head against the king’s chest and cried out in a loud voice, “Forgive me, O King!”

Meldryn Mawr raised his hand and seemed about to speak. But the hand faltered and fell away; the king closed his mouth and bowed his head over his once-esteemed champion. It was a most affecting display, touching all who looked on.

After a moment, Tegid said, “Paladyr, speak again the oath of fealty.” And he began to recite the words which the former champion was to say.

But Paladyr did not answer. He did not even wait for Tegid to finish. Instead, he rose to his feet, stood over the king for a moment, and then turned his back on the throne. All eyes watched him as the former champion hastened from the hall.

The chorus of murmured astonishment which followed Paladyr’s baffling behavior quickly turned to cries of shock and disbelief when someone shouted, “Murder! The king is slain!”

The words were sharp as knives. Like everyone else, I had been watching Paladyr. At the first cry of murder, I whirled back to see Meldryn Mawr still sitting on his throne, head bowed forward, hands in his lap. He appeared in the same attitude as a moment before. He had not moved.

And then I saw it: Paladyr’s knife jutting out of the middle of Meldryn’s chest, just below the breastbone. Blood, spreading in a brilliant crimson bloom, seeped slowly from the wound. The king was dead.

For the space of three heartbeats, the hall held its breath in a horrified hush. Then everything happened at once.

Tegid shouted, “Stop him! Seize him!”

The crowd surged toward the throne. Someone screamed.

In the crush, I fought to join Tegid. More screams. Cries of outrage. Panic. The door to the hall slammed shut. The sound echoed like thunder. Warriors shouted confused orders. The air shimmered with the ring of drawn weapons.

Prince Meldron materialized from nowhere, holding up his hands and loudly proclaiming, “Peace! Peace! Do not be afraid! I am here! Your king is here!”

And there was Siawn Hy—standing beside the prince, brandishing an upraised sword, as if he would protect his lord from attack. Attack from whom? I wondered. Fortunately, the sight of Meldron in control had a reassuring effect. The panic and confusion subsided at once.

“Wolf Pack!” Meldron called, and the warriors of his elite war band pushed through the crowd at the foot of the throne. “Ride after Paladyr. Hunt him down and bring him back. But bring him to me alive. Do you hear? He is not to be harmed!”