The Silver Hand (45 page)

I saw fair Prydain as it was before its desolation, a green gem shining beneath radiant skies, and Sycharth rising above the flat land on its proud promontory overlooking grain-laden fields and the ever-changing sea beyond . . . the strongholds of lords glowing in golden dawn light and gleaming in the setting sun . . . high-banked earth and timbered walls . . . fair woodland, deep forests, rushing streams, and stately rivers . . . Prydain, Most Favored of Realms, the unassailable seat of a most powerful king.

Meldryn Mawr, Great Golden Monarch . . . Ollathir, Prince of Bards . . . Prydain, Fastness of Bold Kings . . . these three together . . . together.

Why these three? What was I to glean from this vision?

It would take a keener mind than mine to pierce the mystery to its heart. Meanwhile, our enemies gathered beyond the protecting ridge wall. If the answer was to come, it would have to come soon. Meldron, ever grasping, would not wait to claim his victory.

The war council talked long into the night. But my head was full of the enigma stirring my thoughts like a tempest, and I could no longer sit still. My heart burned within me, and I could no longer endure listening to the strident voices. I rose and withdrew from the council ring; my departure went unnoticed.

“Let them talk,” I thought. “The enemy gathers roundabout—I must do something.”

But I did not know what to do. So I began walking. I walked, and let my feet take me where they would, tapping with my staff as I went. I skirted the encampment and continued on the path.

As it happened, my tapping disturbed one sleeper, who awoke and joined me on my meandering ramble. Nettles did not speak, but rose and fell into step beside me. Since our flight from Dun Cruach, his presence had become agreeable to me and I welcomed his quiet way. I stopped and turned to him. “Come, we will walk together.”

To my surprise he answered,
“Mo bodlon, do.”

His speech improved with each day, as well it might—he worked at it tirelessly. I nodded and proceeded along the path. The small stranger walked beside me, and we continued in silence for some time.

“
Mae trafferthu?”
he asked at last.

“Yes,” I replied. “There is great trouble.”

We walked on, and I found myself beginning to explain to him the mystery that taunted me. I did not know how much he could understand of what I said, nor did I care. It seemed good to me to have someone to talk with, someone who would merely listen.

“When the Wicked One escaped his Underworld prison, where did he fly?” I asked. “When Nudd, Prince of Uffern and Annwn, King of Coranyid, rode out to despoil this worlds-realm, where did he strike first?”

Nettles, padding softly beside me, made no reply, so I answered my questions myself: “He came to Sycharth—the principal stronghold of Prydain's foremost king. That is—”

“Ah,” said Nettles, “Prydain!”

I realized once again how quickly his mind worked. Even while I spoke, he was squirreling the words away. So I spoke aloud my thoughts, slowly, so that he might catch what he could.

“It was Prydain,” I said, “that felt the dread Nudd's wrath—but only after the king had been lured away through deception. It was Prydain that the Demon Horde despoiled—but only after its king had been put to flight.

“And I ask you: who did Nudd pursue in his icy hatred? Who endured the cruel blows of Albion's Ancient Enemy?

“I will tell you: Meldryn Mawr. The Sovereign of Eternal Night chose the Great Golden King to face the terrible onslaught of his hatred. It was Meldryn Mawr, Prince of Prydain, Lord of the Llwyddi who endured the Enemy's pitiless attack.”

Yes
, I thought,
Prydain's king endured the onslaught
—
and more: survived and triumphed.

“But I ran ahead of myself,” I told Nettles, who walked curious beside me. “Before all that—before Prydain fell, before Nudd and his vile Coranyid were loosed . . . there was the Cythrawl.”

“Cythrawl,” Nettles echoed softly.
“Hen Gelyn.”

“Yes,” I told him. “The Ancient Enemy. And who was it that the Beast of the Pit sought first to destroy? It was Ollathir, Chief Bard of Albion . . . Ollathir.”

“Penderwydd Ollathir,” Nettles mused.

“Chief Bard Ollathir, yes—he held the Sovereignty of Prydain! Ollathir alone knew where the Phantarch dwelt!”

Again I was confronted by the three: lord and realm and bard. But there were others—other lords, other realms, other bards—many others. Why these three?”

“This is the mystery, my friend,” I murmured aloud to Nettles. “Why
these
three?

I pondered this for a while, and it came to me then that I already knew the answer—the word already spoken: the Song of Albion. So I began to explain to Nettles about the Phantarch, and in explaining to him I began to lay hold of myself.

“Why these three?” I said. “I will tell you: because these three alone upheld the Song of Albion!”

“Canaid Alba,”
Nettles said softly.

I halted again. How much did this small stranger understand? How had he come by such knowledge?

“The Song of Albion, yes, that is what the Hosts of Darkness wished to destroy. For so long as it remained, they could not prevail. This is why they ravaged Prydain. This is why they attacked the True King in his kingdom—attacked Sovereignty itself.”

“Aird Righ?”
Nettles said.

I understood the phrase, but he had got it slightly wrong. “No, not the High King,” I told him. “The True King, you see.”

“Aird Righ!”
he said again, more insistently. And I began to wonder if he knew what he was saying.

“Wait,” I said. “Let me think.”

Sovereignty . . . the presence of a True King . . . who else could uphold the Song but a True King? And might that king also be the High King?

“But how is it possible that Meldryn Mawr could be the High King without knowing it?” I demanded of my diminutive shadow. “It is not possible. No, the thing is impossible!”

Nettles said nothing; I could feel his eyes on me, intense, urgent. What did he know?

“Not the
Aird Righ,
” I repeated and turned. I took two steps and froze. Perhaps it was not Meldryn Mawr who was ignorant of his kingship. Perhaps the only ignorance was mine! Meldryn Mawr and Ollathir might have had good reason to hide it—as they had hidden the Phantarch deep within Findargad's mountain heart to protect the Song.

The realization struck me like the blow of a fist. I swayed on my feet. Nettles reached out to steady me. Blind! I was more than blind, I was ignorant as well—and that was worse.

“Prydain, Meldryn Mawr, Ollathir,” I said slowly, so that Nettles could follow, “in these three did the essence of Albion reside.”

And now these three strands met in one person: Llew.

I felt my heart quicken like that of a hunter when he has sighted his quarry. “Llew is the center,” I said. “
Llew
is the word already spoken.
Llew
is the mountain rising in our midst.”

“Llew,” Nettles said.

“Yes, my canny friend, it is Llew.” I began walking again; Nettles scrambled to keep up with me. “Llew possesses the Penderwydd's awen, because he was with Ollathir when he died, and the Chief Bard breathed the awen into Llew with his dying breath. Llew holds the sovereignty of Meldryn Mawr, because I am now Chief Bard of Albion and I gave the kingship to him. And Llew has penetrated the sacred centers of Prydain; he has traversed Môr Cylch in the Heart of the Heart, and he has twice defended the pillar stone of Prydain on the White Rock—and stained it with his blood!”

My mind sped along this path like a spear flying to its mark. In Llew the three strands came together; Llew, the knot of contention. He was the vessel into which the essence of Albion had been poured.

Ah, but the vessel was damaged, disfigured. He could not exercise the kingship that had been given him. And that was the heart of the enigma.

King and not king, bard and not bard, Llew ruled—yet refused to rule—a tribe which was not a tribe but a gathering of separate clans, forming a realm that was not a realm at all. The paradox was complete. If there was a meaning behind it, that meaning was impenetrable.

Still, thanks to Nettles's innocent mistake, I now held within me a startling new thought: the kingship of Prydain might indeed be the High Kingship of Albion.

Enigma and paradox. What did it mean? I did not know, but I would ponder it continually in the days to come.

I dismissed Nettles then, sending him to his rest so that I might contemplate the revelation I had received. I wandered alone, stalking the glen like a restless beast. My feet struck the path leading to the dead lake. I walked on, reaching the strand, and coming to the water's edge. The stink of the lake repulsed me, but I forced myself to continue along the shore. I had not walked far when I sensed that someone else had come down to the water.

“Who is it? Who is there?”

“Tegid . . .” replied a voice, and I heard a sob.

“Goewyn?”

I moved towards the sound of her gentle sobbing. Goewyn came into my arms and, face in hands, she put her head against my chest. “Why do you weep? What is wrong?”

“Gwenllian . . .” she said, her voice muffled and indistinct. I felt her head move away as she lifted her face. “I have seen her, Tegid. I have seen Gwenllian—in a dream,” she explained quickly. “She came to me in a dream.”

“Ah,” I soothed, “I understand.”

She pushed herself away from me. “I saw her. She spoke to me. Gwenllian spoke to me.”

“What did she tell you?”

Goewyn paused and drew a long, shaky breath. “I do not understand it.”

“Tell me.”

Slipping her hand under my elbow, Goewyn turned me aside and we began walking along the darkly festering lake. After a while, she said, “I thought to wait until the council concluded . . . to hear what would be done. But I grew tired. My head felt heavy, and my eyes would not stay open. I thought to rest for only a moment. I fell asleep as soon as I lay down.

“As I slept, I heard a strange sound; like the rustling of birds' wings above my head. The sound woke me . . . I woke—in my dream I woke. Yet, I knew myself to be asleep, and I knew that I dreamed still.”

“I know this kind of dream,” I told her. “What did you see?”

“I saw the lake,” she answered, her voice growing distant as she entered her dream once more—in memory this time. “I saw the lake as it is—vile and stinking. I saw the waters thickening with the foulness. And I saw someone standing at the edge of the lake . . . a woman— dressed all in white. As soon as I saw her, I knew that it was Gwenllian. I ran to her. I embraced her, Tegid! She was alive again! I was so happy!”

I did not reply, so she continued.

“Then Gwenllian spoke to me. I heard her voice, and she seemed reconciled—and more than that. She was content. She shone with peace and satisfaction; her face glowed.” Goewyn fell silent, awed by the power of the vision.

“She spoke to you. What did she say?”

“She told me to remember the prophecy. She said it was very important. She said that the vision had been truly spoken, and that it would be fulfilled.” Goewyn gripped my arm tightly in her excitement. “She said that it is the Day of Strife, but that the Swift Sure Hand was with the
Gwr Gwir.
”

“Are you certain? The
Gwr Gwir
, that is what she said?”

“Yes, but I do not know what it means,” she replied. “
Gwir
— truth? Who are the Men of Gwir?”

“I do not know,” I said, shaking my head slowly. “Unless the Men of Gwir are any who would oppose Meldron.”

The term was part of the prophecy which Gwenllian had given to Llew after the Hero Feat on Ynys Bàinail; he alone had stood against the Cythrawl, and he alone had been given the prophetic word. I had thought about the prophecy many times, searching its phrases in my mind. Llew and I had often argued over its meaning.

“Did she say anything else?”

Goewyn paused, choosing her words carefully. “Yes.” Her voice was but a whisper. “She said . . . Do not be afraid. There is healing in the water.'”

35
T
HE
G
WR
G
WIR

S
ay it again, Goewyn. What did Gwenllian tell you?”

“She put out her hand,” Goewyn answered, “and pointed away from me. I looked and saw that she was pointing at the lake. Gwenllian said, ‘Do not be afraid. There is healing in the water.' And then . . .” Goewyn sniffed.

“Yes? And then?”

“I awoke,” she replied. “I came here—I ran all the way—” The tears started again. “I came down to the lake . . . I thought Gwenllian might be here. It seemed so real. I thought that she had come back to us . . . and I would find her here.”

“Did she say anything else? Think carefully now. Anything at all?”

Her chin quivering, Goewyn shook her head slowly. “No,” she said softly. “There was nothing else. Oh, Tegid . . . Tegid, I saw her.”

I reached out to Goewyn, put my arms around her shoulders, and drew her close. We stood for a moment in silence, and then Goewyn straightened and pulled away. She dried her tears and left me to contemplate the meaning of her dream alone.

I did not sleep that night. I walked beside the poisoned lake, the stench strong in my nostrils. My head swarmed with thoughts; my talks with Nettles and Goewyn had left me disturbed and uneasy. With every step I could feel a dread purpose quickening just beyond the walls of this worlds-realm—inexorable, unyielding. I could sense it, but I could not comprehend it.

Before dawn the warriors assembled. Preparations had continued through the night, and with the coming of daylight they gathered. The carynx called them, and with my inner eye I saw them. Arrayed in battle gear, they stood stout and strong like a forest of tall oaks, waiting to be called forth by the battle chiefs ranged before them.