The Silver Hand (9 page)

“Tegid!” she called upon entering. “Greetings and welcome to you.” She turned to Llew. “And to you also—” Scatha hesitated, stepping closer and scrutinizing Llew carefully. “Llyd? Is it you?”

“I have returned, Pen-y-Cat,” he answered, using the informal title which her warrior pupils bestowed upon her: Chief of Battle.

“Come to me, son of mine,” she said. All who had mastered their skills in her hard school she recognized as her sons.

Llew stepped before her. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and gazed long into his eyes. “Yes, it is Llyd,” she said and, leaning close, kissed him on both cheeks. “Welcome, my son.”

“I am called Llew now,” he told her simply.

“And he is a king!” added Govan.

“Is he indeed?” Scatha asked, regarding Llew placidly. “This is a tale I will hear gladly.” At that moment, servants entered with platters of bread and cold meat and jars of beer. “Build up the fire and fill the cups,” Scatha called to them. Turning to me, she said, “And you, Tegid Tathal, will tell us how this remarkable thing has come about.”

“At last!” said Boru. “And here was I, thinking he had swallowed his tongue.”

Just then Gwenllian, Scatha's first daughter, entered the hall. She had been riding with her mother and had seen the horses stabled before coming in. She now joined us, calling a greeting as she glanced quickly from one to the other of us.

Upon seeing Llew, she froze in midstep.

The smile of welcome vanished from her face, and her body grew rigid. I thought she might swoon, for she swayed on her feet—but her eyes remained bright and alert. We all fell silent, watching her. “Hail, Llew, I greet you,” she breathed in almost silent recognition, her eyes playing over his features. “You have come at last.”

I did not wonder at this odd greeting, for it was Gwenllian whose emerald eyes had first glimpsed the shape of the dire events which had come to pass in Albion. And flame-haired Gwenllian it was who bestowed the prophecy upon Llyd from which he had taken his new name. Seeing him now, wise
Banfáith
that she was, she recognized him despite his altered appearance, or it may be because of it.

The moment passed, and Gwenllian went to him; she pressed his hand and kissed his cheek by way of greeting. Scatha watched this exchange, her features sharp with interest. And even as her daughter stepped away, Scatha's eyes remained on Llew, standing easily now, assured once more of his place among them. I do not know what the Pen-y-Cat saw—perhaps she was remembering the man she had lately sent away, or appraising a strong new ally.

We settled at the glowing hearth, and I began my doleful recitation of all that had happened since Llew and I had last sat in that happy hall. I told them about the harrowing of Prydain by Lord Nudd and his demon host of Coranyid—of Sycharth's destruction, and that of all the settlements large and small throughout the land. I told them of our desperate flight to Findargad, and the long siege brought to an end by Llew's discovery of the Singing Stones by which the dying Phantarch had contrived to save the Song of Albion.

Lastly, I told them of Llew's Hero Feat on the wall at Findargad, and Prince Meldron's treachery which ended in the Great King's death; I recounted Meldryn Mawr's funeral and entombment, and how, in full sight of everyone, Llew had emerged from the Hero Mound. I told them how I had bestowed the kingship upon Llew, and how in retaliation Meldron, wicked seed, had stolen it away and imprisoned us. I described our escape from the hostage pit, and our flight to Ynys Sci.

In short, I told them everything that had happened in the land since we had last sojourned on the island. I knew we would have need of Scatha's considerable aid in the days to come, so I held nothing back. I had already begun to conceive a plan by which we could regain the throne of Prydain.

For their part, my listeners heard the sorry tale in silence, bread and cups untouched at their hands. When I finished, night had deepened and the hall was dark. We sat in a circle around the central hearth, the fire dwindled small. The ticking of the embers grew loud in the silence of the hall. My tale had stunned and astonished. Boru stared into the shimmering coals, his face deep-shadowed and drawn. Scatha and Govan frowned, their eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Gwenllian, erect, hands before her, fingertips together, remained inscrutable behind closed eyes. Goewyn wore a look of mingled pity and pride, and I wondered what she had heard in my words, to awaken such a response.

Finally, Scatha raised her eyes, drew breath, and said, “I am sorry for Meldryn Mawr's death, and saddened by the shameful actions of his grasping son. Whatever I can do to help you, be assured—it will be done.”

Scatha had offered me outright that which I had hoped by persuasion to obtain. I accepted gladly. “I thank you,” I replied. “With your help we will make good Llew's claim and establish his rightful reign.”

But Gwenllian raised a cautioning hand, “You should know this: my mother is bound by a strong
geas
never to support one king over another in battle, or to raise sword against any who have delivered kinsmen to her tutelage, unless any first raise hand against her.” She paused, allowing me to take in the full import of her unhappy words.

I understood the wisdom of this prohibition, even as I lamented its unfortunate effect. For Scatha's taboo meant that we could not count on her considerable skill and support in battle.

“It is true,” Scatha replied. “There are some means I am not free to pursue.”

“Pen-y-Cat,” said Llew, “though your blade alone is worth a hundred, it is enough that you have received us and given us shelter. You need have no fear for your geas. We will find another way to overcome Meldron.”

“Well, I am bound by no such vow,” Boru said, leaping to his feet. “I will gladly take arms against Meldron and any who follow him. I support you, brother. Whatever I have is yours to command.”

“Thank you,” Llew told him. “I accept. No doubt I will have need of your strong arm.”

“Come,” said Scatha, rising, “we will speak no more of this now. You are friends too long absent from this hearth. Tonight we will eat and drink together and rejoice in your safe return.” She called for the fire to be built up again, and for food and drink to be served anew. Talk turned to happier things, and we lingered no longer on Meldron and his low treachery.

Night was far gone when we departed to our sleeping places. Quitting the hall, we followed Boru across the moonlit yard to the warriors' house. Llew stopped abruptly and looked up at the star-spattered sky.

“What is it? What do you see?” I asked.

He did not answer at once. “I had forgotten how bright they are here,” he murmured at length. “And how close.”

7
B
LACK
B
ELTAIN

L
ike noisy gulls returning to their summer nests, the young warriors began flocking to Scatha's school. On the wings of the wind they came—though none from desolate Prydain. This lack was more than made up by others from Llogres and Caledon.

Llew and I stood on the cliff as the first boats discharged their eager passengers. Boys, some as young as eight summers, trooped ashore, their heads full of the glory they would win with skills they had yet to master.

“Scatha's fields will be full this year,” I observed. “Another fine harvest.”

“Hm?” Llew said absently. He was watching a man secure a boat with no other help but the rope wrapped around his broad shoulders. The man leaned into his task, back heaving, strong legs churning as he dragged the boat onto the shingle.

“There is a stout battle chief,” I said and, catching Llew's rapt attention, asked, “Do you know him?”

“Yes, I think I do,” he answered and at once began scrambling down the cliff track to the shingle below.

I followed and heard him shout: “Cynan!”

The young man glanced around and a wide grin spread across his face. Wild red curls, bright as polished copper, ruffled like feathers in the sea breeze; eyes cool and crystal blue as chips of ice cheerfully scanned the shore to see who had called him. A thick silver torc gleamed at his throat.

“Here, Cynan!” called Llew, splashing into the water.

“Greetings, friend,” he said as Llew came to stand before him. “Cynan ap Cynfarch I am.” He continued to smile, but no recognition came into his eyes.

“Cynan, it's me: Llyd!”

The young battle chief paused, keen blue eyes squinting in friendly scrutiny. “No—is it . . . Llyd?”

“You remember!”

“Llyd ap Dicter!” Cynan cried. “Is it you, man?”

A strange name: Anger, Son of Fury. What did it mean?

Llew laughed and seized him by the arms. They embraced as kinsmen, talked, and laughed, oblivious to the waves surging around them. Taking the rope, the two friends beached the boat and then strode onto the shingle where I stood.

“Tegid,” Llew said, “this is Cynan Machae. He is my sword-brother, and it is to him that I owe all I know of humility.”

“Humiliation, you mean.” Cynan laughed, draping an arm across Llew's shoulders. “Ach, but you were a sorry opponent!”

“Cynan's father is King Cynfarch of Caledon,” Llew explained. “His is the largest clan in the south.”

“If you are including sheep as well,” Cynan added happily. “Good greetings to you. Any man who calls Llyd friend is a friend to me.”

“Greetings, Cynan Machae,” I said. “May your spear fly true as your word.”

Llew thrust out a hand to me. “This is Tegid Tathal, Penderwydd of Prydain,” he explained to Cynan. “He allows me to travel in his company.”

“You serve a Chief Bard?” Cynan raised his scant red eyebrows. “You have risen in this world since I last saw you, Llyd.”

“Indeed,” I answered, “though he will not say it himself. He is Llyd no longer. He is become Llew, and he is the king I serve.”

The amazement in Cynan's blue eyes was genuine, as was his pleasure. “
Clanna na cù !”
he hooted. “The stump of a spearhandler I remember was never yet a chieftain, much less a king.” He pressed a finger to the hollow of Llew's throat. “Where is your golden torc, man?”

“Come to the hall and we will raise cups together,” said Llew.

“A man of my own heart,” Cynan replied. “Lead the way.”

They started off across the beach to the hill track, and Llew turned back. “Will you come, Tegid?”

“I will join you in a while. The day is good; I want to walk and think. Save me a jar.”

I watched the two of them mount the steep track leading to the caer. Then I turned and began walking west over the strand. The sea glimmered and gleamed like hammered silver, and the sky shone burnished blue. The salt air was crisp and fresh; a pale sun slowly warmed the land and water. The small round rocks beneath my feet sounded hollow as I trod over them, and the gulls circling far above shrieked their shrill cry.

Yes, a good day to walk and think—and I had much to think on. My foremost concern was the raising of a war band to carry our claim against Meldron and regain the kingship. The Llwyddi war band, though much diminished, still numbered eighty. And the prince's Wolf Pack remained intact—an elite force made up of twenty of Prydain's best warriors.

We would have to do more than merely match Meldron man-for-man. We must overwhelm him. I had no wish to make war on members of my own clan, but a large enough force might mean less bloodshed in the end. Yet, to gather a war band of any size . . . easier to coax oysters from the sea, or beckon birds from the sky. Nevertheless, that was the task set before us.

I scrambled over the sea-lashed rocks and rounded the headland. The wind hit me full and fresh. I pulled the air deep into my lungs and tramped over smooth wet sand the sea had just abandoned.

The difficulties of raising a war band occupied my mind for a time, but my thoughts drifted. Unaccountably, I began thinking about the night on the sacred mound at Ynys Bàinail when out of the lowering storm wrack the Cythrawl, ancient evil, was loosed upon the land. I reached back into the shadows of my memory to that accursed night when Ollathir, Chief Bard of Albion, died.

I heard again the voice of Ollathir, lifted in the secret tongue of the
Derwyddi
, crying out in desperate entreaty. The sacred mound trembled with the sound. I swooned. The last thing I saw was the Chief Bard standing alone with his back to the pillar stone of Prydain, his staff of power above his head, straining to hold the writhing Cythrawl at bay.

Before he died, Ollathir breathed his awen into Llew. I did not see this happen, but I do not doubt that it occurred exactly as Llew described it to me: a dying man's kiss.

Llew possessed the Chief Bard's awen, but he was not a bard. The awen is the bard's guiding vision, it is the illuminating spirit of his craft, it is the essence of knowledge made manifest in power. In a bard like Ollathir the awen was a most formidable tool and weapon. And this Llew possessed but, as he was not bard, he could not call it forth at will.

This weapon was not lost to him completely, however. I had seen it flash forth from him in the Heart of the Heart, the hidden chamber of the Phantarch, deep under Findargad's rock. There, quickened by the power of the Song of Albion, the awen had transfigured him: Llyd, the reluctant warrior, had become Llew, the champion.

The Chief Bard's awen was alive in Llew, but it remained buried deep within. It would be an invaluable aid to us if I could find a way to allow him to invoke it. But the training of a bard is difficult and long. Even so, the disciplined harmony of mind and heart that unites in the song spirit is not granted to all who enter the narrow gate of the Derwyddi, and not every bard can wield the awen as he will.

It felt good to walk so—the wind fresh on my face, the sun warm, and the sea spreading fair beside me. A plan began to take shape in my mind. I was the last bard of my people; all the rest were gone. But judging from what I had seen of Llogres and on Sci, Lord Nudd's destruction seemed to have been confined to Prydain alone. It seemed likely that among the tribes of Caledon and Llogres the bards did not even know what had happened.