The Silver Hand (24 page)

“I am Alun Tringad,” said the fifth; his voice was lively and full-spirited. Into my mind came the image of a lean, long-limbed man with a high, noble brow and blue eyes, as eager for a fight as for amusement.

“And I am Bran Bresal,” the leader said, pride in his men making his tone expansive. He came before my inner eye as a big man with long dark hair and beard neatly braided, black hair thick on his arms and the backs of his hands. He gazed at Llew with steady black eyes. “We beg the freedom of your hearth, lord,” he said, spreading his arms to include his men.

I stepped forward and replied, raising my hand over my head, “Your coming has been foretold, and your welcome three times granted. May it be well to you with us, and may it be well to us with you. May you find among us all you seek.” I lowered my hand. “I would summon the welcome cup, but there is no cup, and no ale with which to fill it.”

“Your welcome is refreshment enough to us,” Bran Bresal said. “You will not find us burdensome guests. We mean to do our share—”

“More than our share!” one of the men put in—Drustwn, I think.

“Yes, more than our share,” Bran continued. “Where there is work, that is where you will find us.”

“We do thank you,” replied Llew. “But work can wait; rest now and take your ease. You will be tired from your journey.”

Bran answered, “Tired, yes, and dusty too. A bath would be a blessing, lord.”

“Then that you shall have,” Llew said. “Rhoedd has soap, and he will show you where we bathe.” The six warriors walked down to the lake with Rhoedd, leaving Llew and me to ourselves for a time. “Well?” I said when they had gone. “Do you accept the truth of the prophecy now?”

“Is there nothing you do not know?” he asked.

“Answer me,” I insisted. “Will you trust the path before you?”

“That I will do, brother,” Llew replied and added, “but I want something from you in return.”

“Name the thing you desire, and I will give it if I can.”

“There is to be no more talk of kingship.”

“Llew, that is—”

“I mean it, Tegid. No more—understand?”

I thought best to let the matter rest there for the time being and did not press it further. He had taken the first step on the path; that was enough for now.

“Very well,” I agreed. “I will speak no more of kingship.”

“The Ravens,” Llew muttered. “Who would have guessed it?”

“Listen!” I said.

We paused, and the sound that had caught my ear—at first broken and uncertain—resolved itself into song: the warriors had begun to sing as they made their way down to the lake.

“Happy shall be Caledon,” I said. “The Flight of Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens—”

“And ravensong shall be her song.” Llew finished the phrase. Indeed, as they reached the lakeshore their voices echoed strong and fine in the still evening air, filling the glen with a bold new sound. “They sing well, these Ravens.”

Llew and I joined the men at the lake after they finished bathing. Llew showed them where we would build the fortress. They were captivated by the idea of the crannog and pledged themselves to its construction. I believe they would have begun building it right then and there if I had not pointed out that we had no tools with which to begin.

Happily, that lack did not hinder us for long. The first of Cynan's supplies arrived three days later, led by Cynan himself and accompanied by a party numbering more than twenty. He brought eight ox-drawn wagons of tools, provisions, and supplies; he also brought seven horses—five mares and two stallions to begin a herd—and four hunting dogs with which to breed a pack. Of the working party, eleven were builders, some of whom had brought their wives and children.

“They are to stay with you here until the fortress is built,” Cynan explained when we had finished our greetings. “I told my father of your plans. He called it a glorious scheme—‘That is a fine and glorious scheme!' says Cynfarch; and he has vowed to do all to sustain you until you are able to provide for yourself. He is eager to secure your goodwill and wishes to establish a strong ally in the north.” He paused as Bran approached. “And it looks to me as if that day will be soon upon us.”

“This is Bran Bresal,” Llew said, “leader of the Ravens. They are staying to help us build Dinas Dwr.”

I noticed that Llew neglected to mention the fact that Bran and his men were Rhewtani. “Let Cynan get to know them first,” he explained later. “Why borrow trouble?” In this, I considered, Llew showed a subtle discretion.

Cynan and Bran exchanged greetings, whereupon Cynan called for the bowl, saying, “Let us drink to new friends and glorious schemes!”

“Cynan, you are a wonder,” laughed Llew. “I would gladly summon the welcome bowl for you, but we have no ale, as you know.”

“Do you not?” mused Cynan. “How is it that I see a vat foaming at your hearth?”

The silver-torced prince had brought his own ale vat and had instructed his men to install it at the hearth. Even as Cynan spoke, I heard the plunge of the cup as the bowl was filled. “To us!” cried Cynan,
“Báncaraid gu bráth!”

“Sláinte môr!”
we called in answer, as the frothy bowl was passed from hand to hand.

That night we ate well and, as the fire leapt high, I sang the “Battle of the Trees”: a song of assembly and common cause, a song to stir men to action. The next morning, work began.

The builders assembled their tools and supplies on the meadow above the place I had chosen in the lake. Llew, Cynan, and I discussed our plan with the head of the workmen—a man named Derfal, who was King Cynfarch's master builder. While we talked, his men cleared the ground for some huts. The warriors, meanwhile, were put to work felling trees for timber for the huts and also for boats. We would require six or eight sturdy, wide-hulled craft to carry stones and timber to the building site in the water.

The first days we saw little more by way of activity than oxen hauling logs from the forest to the meadow. Then the builders' huts were quickly raised, and the boats began to take shape. As the finished boats took to the water, and the construction work began in earnest, our once-serene forest camp became a hub of bustle and turmoil.

From morning to night the forest rang with ax blows and the lowing of oxen. The camp bubbled to women's voices as they set about baking bread and roasting meat to feed the ever-famished workers. The lakeshore echoed with the laughter of children and the barking of dogs. The air shimmered with eager sound; a rainbow of joy spread over the glen. I walked here and there, listening to all, and it seemed to me gladness itself.
Happy Caledon
, I thought.

Long timber pillars were prepared, five carefully chosen oak boles, tapered and shaped, and then five more. With great heed and greater labor, these were floated to the site in the center of the lake and driven into the mud of the lake bottom so that their tops protruded above the surface. Then the builders and their helpers plied their boats ceaselessly, ferrying endless loads of stone from the lakeshore to the site. The stones were tumbled around each of the oak pilings, securing them in a thick bed of stone.

The five pilings were joined together with the five remaining logs, which were lashed to the portion of the pillar extending above the water, forming a five-sided ring in the water. Lastly, a solid webwork of oak branches was woven between the five sides of the ring. This became a platform which was covered first with stone and then earth. Upon this earth-covered platform the first round timber dwellings would be erected.

To this crannog would be added another, and then another, and more—until there were a score of small crannongs, all joined together by bridges and walkways and circled about by stout timber walls. No sooner was the first crannog finished than the second was begun.

All this took place beneath Llew's watchful gaze. He could always be found with the builders, laboring alongside them by day, and head-to-head with Derfal at night, discussing the next day's work. Cynan, too, enjoyed himself enormously. Indeed, he looked upon the creation of Dinas Dwr as if it were his own undertaking. I think it was the first time he had had real work to do, work of substance and importance. Certainly, his father was an able ruler, and not the kind of man to place overmuch confidence in those around him; Cynan could not have many tasks of consequence to occupy himself in his father's house. Thus, Llew's venture became as much his own, and he gave himself to it as only Cynan could.

Maffar passed in a haze of sweat and strain. Rhylla, the Season of Seedfall, arrived as a welcome relief with its cooler days and nights. We aimed to work as long as the weather held good, and there were yet many fine days before Sollen's ice and wind would put an end to our activities.

Cynan, who had stayed as long as he could, announced his return to the south. “Harvest will begin soon, and I will be needed to collect the king's tribute,” he explained. “But I will return before the snow with provisions enough to see you through Sollen.”

“You are a friend and brother,” Llew told him, as Cynan and his companions mounted their saddled horses; Cynan was taking four warriors with him, but the rest would stay. “Wait until the weather clears to return. I am certain we can survive until Gyd on what you brought the first time.”

Cynan dismissed the offer without comment. “And I will bring word of the world beyond this glen of yours,” he said.

“Go then,” Llew replied, “and farewell. Return when you may.”

When Cynan had gone, we walked down to the lake. I heard the dull chunk of the incessant axes as the builders chipped and shaped the timbers. I heard the slow earth-tread of the oxen as they dragged the heavy logs to the wood yard. I heard the splashing of the children as they played at the water's edge.

We sat on the stones among pine-scented woodshavings and considered all that had been accomplished: two crannogs, finished—the first with two large dwellings and a storehouse—and a third begun; a cattle pen in the meadow for the oxen and horses, two builders' huts for tools and supplies, and four ample dwellings on the lakeshore. It was a good beginning.

“We have done well,” Llew said. “It is looking like something now. I wish you could see it, Tegid.”

“But I have seen it,” I told him. “I have seen it all.”

“As it will be, perhaps. But—”

“Yes, as it will be—and as it is.” I touched my fingertips to my forehead. “In the time we have been here my gift has been growing.”

“Truly?”

“It comes as it will—like the awen—I cannot command it. Sometimes it comes of its own, but a word will often call it forth. Or a sound. I never know when it will awaken. Yet each time I seem to see more.”

Rhylla's crisp nights brought the mists from the lake and sharp, golden days set aflame by the sun's dying light. But the shining days dwindled and passed to gray, like fire to ashlike the Samhain fire that marks the year's turning: so bright and fierce as it flares from the hill—top, holding the trouble—fraught night at bay with brave light. But the fire dwindles to gray ash in the end—gray days of rain, endless until the creeping darkness gathers them and bears them away.

After Samhain, I often scented winter in the air. The coats of the horses and oxen grew soft, thick, and long. The warriors hunted, fished, and chopped wood for the season of snows. The women preserved the meat—smoking some and salting the rest; they baked the hard black bread that would keep us through the winter. The children covered their sunbrowned limbs with warm woolen cloaks and leggings. The builders rubbed grease on their tools at night and wrapped them away in the lakeshore huts to keep from rusting.

We moved from our camp among the trees to the dwellings on the lakeshore. There were fewer than thirty of us, so the four big dwellings on the lakeshore housed us in comfort . . . until the first of the refuge seekers arrived.

18
T
HE
C
HALLENGE

C
ynan returned the first moon after Samhain, bringing with him seven warriors and five wagons loaded with supplies—food grain and seed: oats, barley, and rye—and some luxuries: honey, salt and herbs, woven cloth, and tanned leather. He also brought new spears, and swords and shields enough for all the warriors. And, as if to make certain we would not become complacent in our surfeit of riches, he also brought with him thirty weary Eothaeli—starving, footsore survivors of a tribe who had resisted Meldron's demands for hostages and tribute and saw their king, war band, and kinsmen slaughtered, their caer burned down around them, and all their cattle driven off.

“I did not know what else to do with them,” a mildly confounded Cynan explained. “They were wandering lost on the moors. Cold and hungry . . . bairns and all—with nowhere to go.”

“You did right,” Llew said.

“No weapons, no provisions—they would have frozen soon enough,” Cynan continued. “If I had reckoned on them, I would have brought more grain. As it is, I cannot—”

“Never fret, brother,” Llew assured him quickly. “It is for them, and those like them, that we build Dinas Dwr. Bring them in, I say.”

The Eothaeli stood apart, uncertain of their reception. Llew, Cynan, and I spoke to them—eight men, fifteen women, and the rest children, several babes in arms. Llew told them they had nothing to fear: they would be given food and clothing, they would be cared for, and, if they chose to, they could stay. Still they were reluctant to believe their good fortune.

A baby cried out—a small, squalling keen—and was quickly hushed by its mother. The sound kindled my inner eye, and I saw a bedraggled clump of exhausted clansmen, wary and uneasy, fear peering out of their dull eyes. Foremost among them stood a gaunt, flint-faced man with his arm wrapped in a filthy, blood-soaked rag, who appeared to be the leader of the group—all that was left of three family tribes. “It is not right that we should be treated shamefully. We are not outcasts,” the gaunt man answered, his voice swelling with indignation. “We were attacked without provocation; our stronghold was destroyed, our people murdered, and our cattle driven off. We escaped death—but even death is better to us than disgrace.”