The Silver Hand (10 page)

It came to me that I might send to them through the warrior-
Mabinogi
who flocked to Scatha's isle. Yes, I would gather the learned brotherhood and tell them all that had taken place. I would apprise them of Meldron's offense against sovereignty and ask their aid in helping us restore the kingship of Prydain.

In the next days, I talked to the boys and young men arriving on the island and discovered which kings in Caledon and Llogres maintained bards. From the warrior-Mabinogi I learned the names of my brothers and where they could be found. And then I waited, giving myself to the tasks I found in Scatha's service.

Through days as sweet and rich as golden mead, the Wheel of Heaven revolved, turning through its measured course: through planting time and blossom time—when the hills glow with tiny golden flowers, and even the deep-shadowed glens deck themselves in red and purple—the seasons worked their slow enchantment. I watched the signs, marking each day's passing and observing the sacred celebrations and festivals of our people.

I observed also the growing bond between Goewyn and Llew.

They were often together: riding in the fresh dawn light, walking the hills at sunset or the silvered strand by moonlight. I saw how Goewyn watched him, delighting in his presence. It was not dawn's fresh light that rose in her dark eyes, but something brighter still and just as clear and strong.

Llew held himself enthralled by her every grace—by her bright-braided tresses no less than by her laugh, by the curve of her lips no less than by the cool touch of her slender fingers. Llew was not lonely with Goewyn in sight.

Rhylla, season of seedfall and song, came in its time, bringing the short, amber-tinted days and frost-mingled nights. The Season of Snows followed, with cold, wet, gusty days. But before the ice-laden gales conspired to end sea travel, the young of Scatha's school departed to their separate realms and the hearths of their clans.

Before the ships departed, I spoke to those returning to the mainland and extracted solemn vows to deliver my message to the bards: at the request of the Chief Bard of Prydain, a
gorsedd
on Ynys Bàinail one moon after Beltain.

I stood on the cliff, the wind lashing my cloak against my legs, and watched the ships setting forth on their homeward journeys. Word of the gathering went with my pledged messengers; I had no fear that it would fail. When the last ship sailed from the bay, I hastened to the hall, warming myself with the knowledge that my plan, so long anticipated, was finally proceeding.

Fortunate indeed are those who enjoy the shelter of Scatha's hall when the cruel wind howls. There is feasting on savory meat and sweet bread and honey mead; there is singing and the matchless music of the harp and the tales of wonder; there is sporting at games and hunting and riding in the snow, returning red-cheeked to sip hot ale from steaming cups; there is warmth in excellent company while the gale claws with icy fingers at the roof thatch, and the rooftree groans.

One by one, the days passed and the year's wheel turned. The Season of Ice and Darkness waned; fury spent, winter gathered its flagging forces and retreated.

The days lengthened and the wind warmed. The moon moved through its phases until one morning, as a new moon rose in the time-between-times, we observed the rite which marks the year reborn: the kindling of the Beltain fire.

On that day, all other fires are extinguished so that the Beltain flame, pure and perfect, may be the mother of all flames throughout the year to come. In the chieftain's house this fire burns without cease, and anyone needing fire is given live embers from the Beltain bed so that each house receives warmth and light from the same pure flame.

Accordingly, in the dark of the moon, Gwenllian and I gathered the Nawglan, the nine woods whose unique qualities produce such wonderful benefit. We obtained a goodly quantity, which I bundled with strips of rawhide. On the highest hill of Ynys Sci, we cut a wide and shallow trench in the turf—a circle large enough to enclose the entire company of Scatha's house. In the center of the circle, we placed the bundled wood on a newborn lamb's white fleece.

Before dawn the company assembled on the hilltop: Gwenllian, Govan, Goewyn, Llew, Scatha, Boru, the servants, and the few warriors who wintered with us. And then, in the time-between-times we kindled the flame. Grasping the greenwood bow, Gwenllian drew the gut line, spinning the length of rounded yew in the deep-cut notch of an oaken bole. At the first glow from the wood, I applied the dried plant called
tán coeth,
which causes the infant flame to burst bright and blush crimson—as if drawing the life from the very air.

I have done this countless times. But this time, as I touched the tán coeth to the wood, the spark glimmered feebly and died in a wisp of smoke. Gwenllian saw the flame fail and drew her breath in sharply; the bow fell from her fingers and her face went white. My heart lurched in my chest.

I glanced to the east, toward the rising sun, even as my hands fumbled to retrieve the bow and yew. The first rays of the sun touched the hilltop and there was no fire to greet the new day. The Beltain fire failed. The year dawned black.

Quickly, quickly, I replaced the bow and spun the yew stick as hard and fast as my shaking fingers would permit—as if speed alone could recover the loss. Black Beltain! How could it have happened? I held my breath, willing the flame to appear.

A moment later, a tiny plume of silver smoke curled from the oak bole. I blew gently on the spark and coaxed it to a flame. In the space of two heartbeats the fire leapt quick and high. If any of the others noticed anything amiss, they did not show it; I think only Gwenllian and I knew. So great was my desire to see the new year begun aright, I turned my face away from the ill-omened flame and instead stood to greet the year renewed.

We baked the Beltain bread then, forming the small loaves of grain and honey and setting them to cook on the flat stones at the fire's edge, while I roasted the flesh of fish, fowl, and kine on spits over the fire. Goewyn shared out apples and hazelnuts kept through Sollen's darkness, and Govan poured beer and sweet, yellow mead into bowls. The fire loaves are all that is strictly required, but other items are added as the clan desires in order to ensure plenty through all the year.

Thus, in the new light of the year reborn, we ate and drank and sang. Gwenllian, her harp against her shoulder, sent the sparkling melody skyward. She lifted her voice and offered a precious gift of music to the day. But though I sang, and heard the song rising up like the smoke from the fire before us, my heart was not in it. Dread had taken root in my soul, and I could not sing true.

When the fire had burned down, I gathered the live embers to rekindle the hearthfire in Scatha's hall. Then I collected the ash, dividing it into four equal portions for Gwenllian and her sisters and myself. The Beltain rite observed, we all returned to the caer.

I put the inauspicious fire behind me, and looked instead to the coming gathering. I ordered the various matters in my mind and weighed the words I would use to unite the brotherhood and rouse the bards of Albion to action—remembering only too well that the last gathering had ended in sharp dissension. And then, as the day drew near, Llew and I readied our boat for the voyage to Ynys Bàinail, the Isle of the White Rock, where the gorsedd would take place.

On a fair, wind-swept day, Llew and I bade farewell to our friends and raised sail for Ynys Bàinail and the gathering of bards.

I did not know how many Derwyddi would answer the summons, but this is the way of it: when the Chief Bard of one of the three principal realms of Albion determines to raise a gathering, all bards are bound by vows of brotherhood to attend the gorsedd if no higher claim prevents them. As Chief Bard of Prydain it was my right to summon my brother bards.

A gorsedd brings bards from all clans and realms, for the Derwyddi hold not to ties of blood kinship in the way of other men; neither do we swear fealty to any lord or chieftain, save the one who is chief over us. We who hold the kingship for our people are bound to sovereignty itself; our fealty is to kingship, not the king.

This is how it must be. Kings come and go, but sovereignty remains. Kings are men, and men may fall to vice and corruption, but sovereignty is pure and undefiled at its source. Albion's bards are charged with maintaining the Sovereignty of Albion in its purity. We, the keepers of kingship, are ever vigilant for those who would do violence to that which we have vowed to uphold through all things.

I held our sturdy boat close to the wind so that the prow divided the waves, driving the silver fish before us. I was eager to reach Ynys Bàinail to see who arrived first, and also to tend Ollathir's grave. I had buried him in haste, and wanted to honor him properly now.

“What are you going to tell them?” Llew asked, when he at last turned his eyes from the misty mound of Ynys Sci.

“I will tell them that Prince Meldron has raped the kingship of Prydain,” I answered simply.

“What do you expect them to do?”

“We will hold council and see what may be done,” I answered. “That is why I have issued the call.”

Llew nodded, his eyes on the sea's far horizon. “How many will come?”

“I cannot say. I believe the bards of Caledon and Llogres remain.”

“Two thirties and two?”

“How do you reckon that number?”

“You told me there were three thirties and three in all Albion,” Llew replied. “That makes thirty and one for each of the three realms. Since no bards remain in Prydain—save you alone—that leaves two thirties and two.” He smiled. “Well? Have I guessed correctly?”

“Yes, if all answer the summons. Some might be prevented.”

“What would prevent them?”

“The need to protect the kingship or the people,” I replied. “It is for each bard to determine where and when his skills are required by his people and his king.”

“I see.” Llew sat down with his back to the mast and his arms folded on his knees. “What about the Phantarch—will you tell them about the Phantarch's death?”

“Of course. It is a matter of highest concern,” I said, thinking that even I did not fully comprehend it all. “The brotherhood will decide what to do to restore the Song of Albion.”

The Song of Albion has been sung from the beginning of this worlds-realm; from the beginning there has always been a Phantarch to sing it. Hidden in his chamber of stone under high mountains, the Chief Bard of Albion sang the Song; through him the Song of Albion was given life; upholding and sustaining all that existed.

The Phantarch was dead, but the Song remained. For the Chief Bard of Albion had protected it in death, even as he had upheld it in life. By means of strong enchantment the Phantarch had bound the Song of Albion to the very stones that had crushed him and formed his grave mound. This he had done so that the Song would not pass out of this worlds-realm and Albion fall to utter darkness and chaos. These were the same Singing Stones which Meldron now held—and by which he thought to justify his unlawful claim on the sovereignty of Prydain.

“Will they try to recover the Song from Meldron?” Llew inquired. Our time on Scatha's Isle had done much to restore his spirits. The gaze from his clear gray eyes as he looked out upon the sea swell was steady and untroubled.

“I do not know,” I told him. “This has never happened before.”

We talked on other things then and ate some of the bread from our provisions. Our stout boat parted the waves, and the gulls hovered above the billowing sail. If the wind held good, three days' sailing would bring us to our destination: Ynys Oer, larger companion to Ynys Bàinail.

We sighted the big island early on the morning of the third day. As the wind remained favorable, we proceeded to sail around the broad northern headland and came at Ynys Bàinail from the west. This made the sea journey a little longer, but saved us a rough walk across the promontory.

As we rounded the headland, the Isle of the White Rock came into view, shining like a beacon on the sun. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I could almost make out the pillar stone on the mound in the center of the island. We sailed past the isle and entered the strait separating the White Rock from its larger island neighbor. Those who go to Ynys Bàinail often camp on the western shore of Ynys Oer and then cross the strait to the sacred isle by curragh, the smaller leather-hulled boats the Derwyddi keep especially for the purpose.

There is a sandy cove among the rocks on the western shore of Ynys Oer and a stone hut where provisions may be stored, and where a few useful tools are kept for those who visit the sacred isle. The hut stands at the head of a grassy glen where horses can be grazed; through the glen flows a clear-running stream, where horses can be watered. Horses are not allowed on the White Rock, nor weapons of any kind, nor any unworthy person; for Ynys Bàinail, Isle of the White Rock, is the sacred center of Albion.

We made landfall on the shore of the rock-sheltered cove and anchored the boat. Llew gathered firewood and fetched water. He moved our provisions from the boat to the hut, and, having done all to make ready, he walked the sea strand to occupy himself.

Meanwhile, I took a curragh and went alone to the White Rock to visit Ollathir's grave. I tidied the small mound and added to its heap of smooth black-and-white stones. Then I sat beside the grave mound until the sun touched the far sea rim in the west, whereupon I rose and made my way back across the channel to wait for the bards to arrive.

8
T
HE
L
AST
G
ORSEDD

T
he first bards arrived the next morning; seventeen, and all from Llogres. They had assembled on the eastern side of the island, and having seen our ship the previous day, crossed the headland to join us. At dusk eleven bards arrived from Caledon in two boats. And three boats from Llogres appeared just after dawn the next day bearing fourteen, along with their attendant Mabinogi. Twelve from Caledon arrived on horseback at midday, and the remaining eight followed at dusk.