The Silver Hand (18 page)

“‘I am no longer to be king,' he declared. And the tribes began a lament, for he had been a lord both great and good. ‘It is for you to choose one to follow me,' he told his bard. ‘Choose wisely now, and choose you well.'

“The bard and the people deliberated a while, and the king waited. When a suitable time had passed, he said, ‘Well? What is your decision?'

“The bard, in the voice of the people, answered with a loud cry, saying, ‘We know we shall never find a lord as great and good as you to rule over us, but since you say you must cease to be king—which we will long and bitterly regret—we choose Bladudd. May he be to us a pillar of protection and a sword of rightwise judgment.'

“Rhud beamed his pleasure, for the people had read his heart aright. And the Chief of Song placed the golden torc of kingship around Bladudd's throat. From that day, Bladudd ruled wisely and well. His keen desire for Truth and his wife, Sovereignty, stood by him through all things—and through all things did Bladudd prosper.

“Here ends the tale of the Blemished Prince. Let him receive it who will.”

The last notes of the harp strings lingered long in the grove. I took my place by the fire once more, put the harp aside, and drank from my cask of a cup. I heard the silence of the grove deepening as night drew its cloak over us, gathering us to its dark heart.

At last, Gofannon, his voice a quiet thunder from the mound, stirred himself and said, “I have been blessed by the gift of your song—and no less by the gift of your excellent companionship.”

“It is for us to thank you, lord,” I replied. “Your food and drink are the saving of us.”

“Tch!” the giant said impatiently, “Meat and drink satisfy for only a short time and they are gone. But the gift you have given me goes with me and sustains me wherever I wend. By merit of this truth, I grant you a boon: I will give you the virtue of your song.”

“Great Lord Gofannon,” I said, “we have enjoyed the bounty of your hearth, your kindness, and your company. Indeed, you have already granted us more than we had any right to ask.”

“Nevertheless,” the giant answered, “I will reward you well for the service you have done me this night.” I heard a rustle, and the great lord's voice sounded from a place high above me. “We will sleep now,” he said. “Rest you in peace by my fire. Worry not. No enemy will intrude upon your repose; nothing will disturb you in my grove.”

The voice receded, dwindling, and I realized that the lord of the grove was withdrawing to his cavern. His voice came back to us as he left us to our rest. “My reward will come to you in good time,” he said. “See that you are ready to receive it.”

12
D
RUIM
V
RAN

H
e gave it to you,” said Llew. “He meant you to have it.”

I was tempted. Never had I held such a harp. “Did he leave anything else behind?” I asked.

Llew paused as he gazed around the camp. “No,” he said. “Just the harp. The ale vat is gone, and the cups, and even the leavings from our meal. Everything is gone but the harp. It is yours, I tell you. It even has a strap.”

We had awakened to find the grove empty and the forge lord gone. But he had left the harp. Perhaps, as Llew insisted, Gofannon meant it for me. But I had begun to have doubts about our gigantic host.

“You might as well take it, Tegid,” Llew urged, “because you cannot leave it lying here.”

“You are right, brother,” I relented, seizing the strap and slinging the harp over my shoulder. “Let us go.”

Silently, so as not to disturb the peace of the nemeton, we crept away—Llew leading and I walking just behind with my left hand on his shoulder, feeling my way with the ash branch in my right hand. We did not return to our camp of the day before but took up the trail along the river once more. We walked a long time. I could tell Llew was thinking, and I had thoughts of my own to occupy me.

The day was warm. We traveled the river marge where the walking was easiest. At midday we stopped to drink from the river, cupping water in our hands and splashing it into our mouths. Then we sat down on the grassy bank to rest.

“Last night was the first since”—he hesitated—“since Meldron— the first time I did not hurt.”

It came to me then that my own wound no longer throbbed and burned. I touched a hand to my bandaged eyes and, though still tender, the pain was gone.

“It seems that Gofannon has blessed us as he promised,” observed Llew.

“I do not think it was Gofannon,” I said, more to myself than to Llew.

“What?”

“He appeared in the guise of Gofannon,” I answered, “but I think it was not the Master of the Forge who feasted us last night.”

“Who was it, then?”

“Another lord, greater still and more ancient. Perhaps the Swift Sure Hand himself.”

“I wonder,” replied Llew thoughtfully. “You did not see him when you sang. But I watched him. He changed, Tegid. He was fierce, almost wild-eyed before. But as he listened to the song he took on an entirely different aspect. I tell you, brother, he was changed.”

“Truly?”

“If you had seen him, you would agree. When you finished, he could not speak. Nor could I. You have always sung well, Tegid. But last night . . .” Llew halted, grasping for words. “Last night you sang like the Phantarch himself.”

I turned this over in my mind. It seemed to me that while I sang, I could see. With the song in my mouth, the words falling from my lips, I was no longer blind. For the span of the song, I saw the world bright before me—as if the vision of the song became my sight.

We journeyed deeper into the wooded hills of Caledon. The land beneath my feet began to rise, inclining toward the mountain peaks in ever higher hills and ever deeper valleys. The river narrowed, becoming deeper, faster, and louder the sound of its passing. Llew led well; he was my eyes.

Nevertheless, as the path rose and the woods deepened to forest, our progress slowed to a tedious crawl. To divert ourselves from our labor, we talked about the land and about the seasons and about the movements of the sun across the bowl of the sky. We discussed the star host: the Nail of Heaven, Great Bran the Blessed, the Plow, the Boar and Bear, the Seven Maidens, Arianrhod of the Silver Wheel, and all the rest. We delved into lore both ancient and holy. We talked of things hidden and known, seen and unseen: the powers of air and fire, water and earth; principles and verities; truth, honor, loyalty, friendship, and justice. And we contemplated great kings and chieftains, wise leaders and foolish. Yes, we talked long of kingships—the right ruling of people and nations, the secrets of discernment, the sacred order of sovereignty.

As before, Llew took it all in. His capacity was boundless. Llew had a bard's memory. He learned; he remembered. He grew, much as a tree grows when its roots touch the water hidden in the earth— straight and high and broad, casting its branches wide, claiming preeminence in the forest. As Ollathir would say, he became an oak of knowledge.

Much of what I told him was known only to the bards themselves. But what of that? There were no bards in Albion anymore, and knowledge, like fire, is increased when it is shared.

Alas, though he increased in knowledge, I detected no kindling of the awen spark, no flash of the brilliance concealed within. Ollathir's awen remained a hidden gem, waiting to be revealed when and where it would.

We ate what little we could find, but hunger was our constant companion. We did not thirst, however, for we drank our fill from the cold river freshets. Our bodies grew lean from want and hard from the rigors of the trail. Keen privation drew close and mingled our souls. Llew and I became brothers of the heart, kinsmen born of a bond stronger than blood.

One day, after many days, we woke to rain and wind out of the north. We stayed under the trees and waited for the rain to stop. The rain continued through the day, and when it finally stopped and the clouds parted, it was too late to travel on. But we walked a little way up the trail just to see what lay ahead.

“We are on a hill overlooking a deep glen,” Llew told me. “The hill on the far side of the glen is high—higher than this one.”

“What lies beyond it?”

“I cannot see—it forms a wall, steep and high. It will be difficult to climb. It may be that we would do better to go another way.”

I nodded, trying to picture the lay of the land in my mind. “What is the forest like here?”

“It is pine, mostly, and close—dense in the glens, but somewhat thinner near the top.” He paused to take in the landscape to the right and left. “I think the hill is part of a larger ridge. There appears to be a ridgeway running north to south along the top. If that is so, we might be able to follow it south.”

I pondered this for a moment. Were there any old track ways in Caledon? It was possible, although I knew of none. Presently, the wind gusted, changing direction, blowing out of the south as the rainstorm passed. The wind brought with it the scent of pine, strong after a day of rain.

I breathed in that heady scent, and there appeared in my mind's eye the image of a lake: the lake of my vision. Suddenly, I saw the steep-sided glen in deep forest and the tall pines straining for a blue, cloud-swept sky which was reflected in a clear mountain lake.

“What is it, Tegid?” Llew asked; he was growing accustomed to my lapses. “What are you thinking?”

“Let us climb to the summit of the ridge.”

Llew did not say no. “We have not much light left. It is high and will likely be dark before we reach the top.”

“It is all the same to me.”

Llew nudged me with his elbow. “A joke, Tegid? This is the first time you have made light of your blindness.”

“Light of blindness? Do you think yourself a bard to speak in such riddles?”

“The fault is yours, brother—filling my head with your talk.” He considered the path before us and sighed. “Come on, then.”

We accomplished the descent very quickly. The climb up the other side took much longer. Llew hurried as fast as he dared in the failing light. He might have gone more quickly without me, but not much. And though the bruises proliferating on my shins might seem to indicate otherwise, I was growing ever more adept at finding my way along with the aid of my staff. I could move with some haste.

As the hillside was steep, Llew's directions became more succinct; he spoke only when necessary to guide me. And I wondered if he knew how well, how naturally he led. Was it, in the end, so different leading men? Was it not much the same—picking out the trail, deciding the safest way, strengthening the unsure step with words of encouragement, guiding, going ahead, but not too far ahead—was not trailcraft much the same as kingcraft?

“It is just a little way now,” Llew called out from directly above. “You are almost there.”

“What do you see?” I asked him.

“I was right about the ridge,” he replied. His hand found my arm, and he pulled me up to stand beside him. “The view from here is stunning, Tegid. The sun is down now, and the sky is the color of heather. We stand on a high ridge. Before us is a wide, bowl-shaped glen, all but surrounded by the ridge wall. A stream passes through the wall somewhere below us and empties into a lake in the center of the bowl. There are tall trees around three sides of the lake and a broad grassy lea on the fourth side. The lake is like a mirror; I can see the clouds reflected in the water—and stars, there are stars beginning to shine. And it is just beautiful,” he concluded. “I wish I could describe it better. I wish you could see it.”

“I have seen it,” I told him. “And it is beautiful.”

“You know this place?”

“I have never been here,” I explained. “But I feel certain this is the place I saw in my vision.”

“Your vision in the boat—I remember.” His voice shifted as he turned his gaze to the lake once more. “What else do you see here, Tegid?”

I delved into my memory of that storm-lashed night and brought forth the glimmering remnant of my vision. “I see a lake . . . I see a fortress, high-timbered and strong . . . And I see a matchless war host—many hundreds gathered around a throne raised upon a mound,” I told him, recalling the images. “I see—”

“No, I mean describe it—in detail. Be precise.”

I concentrated, holding the images in my mind. “I see,” I began slowly, “a stand of tall pines lining the top of the ridge to our right. The slope is steep and densely wooded, rising from the near shore of the lake.”

“Go on.”

“The lake is longer than it is wide; it stretches almost the whole length of the valley floor. Forest surrounds it on the three sides, as you have said, and a wide grassy meadow on the fourth.”

“What about the meadow?”

“It forms a plain between the lake and the ridge; a plain perfectly enclosed because the ridge base rises sharply to form a protecting wall at the farthest end.”

“What else?”

“The lake is bounded by a rough rock shingle; the rocks are black, the size of loaves. There are numerous game trails and runs down through the forest to the lake.”

“That is remarkable,” Llew conceded. “Unbelievable. It is just as you describe it.” He clapped his hand to my shoulder. “Let us go down to the lake. We will make our camp there.”

“But it is growing dark, you said. How will you see the path?”

“I cannot see the path,” he replied lightly. “Even now it is too dark. But I do not need to see the path, for you will lead me.”

“Do you mock me?”

“It is all the same to you, is it not?” demanded Llew. “Your inner sight will lead us to the appointed place. We will not stumble or go astray. Indeed, we will not put a foot wrong.”

There came the croak of a raven. I listened, and heard an answering call—and then others. Soon the ridgetop resounded with the ragged, raspy clamor. Ravens were gathering in the trees along the ridge for the night.