The Silver Hand (52 page)

And as he fell, his body seemed to fade from sight. He struck the water—I saw it! But could I trust my new eyes? For there was no splash . . . and no corpse to be found when we rushed to the place where he plunged. Siawn Hy had vanished.

“He has gone back,” said Llew, gazing at the water. “I always meant to send him home, but I thought he would be alive when he went.”

“It was his choice.”

“No,” Llew said. “It was mine.”

Twilight descended over the valley; the first stars had begun to shine and the moon glowed bright just above the horizon. Llew turned to the people of Dinas Dwr, his people, and to the kings and warriors and friends looking on. “Justice has been done,” Llew told them. “The blood debt is paid.”

“Hail, Llew Silver Hand!” Bran called, lofting his spear. The Flight of Ravens championed the cry, and the people raised the chant. “Silver Hand! Silver Hand! Silver Hand!”

He raised his hand to them; the figured metal shone in the twilight, and I saw in the gleaming silver the radiant glow of kingship glinting bright.

Goewyn appeared, walking along the bank on the river; without a look or word to anyone, she approached Llew. Every eye beheld her slender form clothed in a simple white robe with a mantle of sky blue falling from her shoulders. Moonlight bright in her pale gold hair, she seemed to shine like an earth star.

She carried a small wooden chest in her hands. The chest was made of oak—inspiration's wood, in bardic lore. Placing the oaken chest at Llew's feet, she straightened, touched the back of her hand to her brow and stepped back. Llew bent down and took up the chest. He opened it, turned the chest, and held it out for all to see. Inside were a number of milk-white stones: the Singing Stones.

Llew withdrew one of the stones and held it before the throng. I saw the silver fingers flex and tighten as he crushed the stone in his metal hand. A sound like chorused thunder broke from the shattered stone— a sound like star voices clear and clean as gemstones coursing through the endless sky paths—a sound like ten thousand harps united in the heart-piercing music of the Oran Mor, the Great Music—a sound from beyond this worlds-realm, framed by the Swift Sure Hand.

My spirit soared, swift and high: and it seemed that I merged with the matchless sound. I lost all knowledge of myself or where I was; I became one with the melody I felt moving within me. I opened my mouth, yet it was not my voice which struck the twilight air. It was the Song of Albion.

I opened my mouth and the words poured out in a stream of splendid song:

Glory of sun! Star-blaze in jeweled heavens!
Light of light, a High and Holy land,
Shining bright and blessed of the Many-Gifted;
A gift forever to the Race of Albion!

Rich with many waters! Blue-welled the deep,
White-waved the strand, hallowed the firmament,
Mighty in the power of One,
Gentle in the peace of great blessing;
A wealth of wonders for the Kinsmen of Albion!

Dazzling the matchless purity of green!
Fine as the emerald's excellent fire,
Glowing in deep-clefted glens,
Gleaming on smooth-tilled fields;
A Gemstone of great value for the Sons of Albion!

Abounding in white-crowned peaks, vast beyond measure,
The fastness of bold mountains!
Exalted heights—dark wooded and
Red with running deer—
Proclaim afar the high-vaunted splendor of Albion!

Swift horses in wide meadows! Graceful herds
on the gold-flowered water-meads,

Strong hooves drumming,
a thunder of praise to the Goodly-Wise,

A boon of joy in the heart of Albion!

Golden the grain-hoards of the Great Giver,
Generous the bounty of fair fields:
Redgold of bright apples,
Sweetness of shining honeycomb,
A miracle of plenty for the tribes of Albion!

Silver the net-tribute, teeming the treasure
of happy waters; Dappled brown the hillsides,
Sleek herds serving
the Lord of the Feast;
A marvel of abundance for the tables of Albion!

Wise men, Bards of Truth, boldly declaring from
Hearts aflame with the Living Word;
Keen of knowledge,
Clear of vision,
A glory of verity for the True Men of Albion!

Bright-kindled from heavenly flames, framed
of Love's all-consuming fire,
Ignited of purest passion,
Burning in the Creator King's heart,
A splendor of bliss to illuminate Albion!

Noble lords kneeling in rightwise worship,
Undying vows pledged to everlasting,
Embrace the breast of mercy,
Eternal homage to the Chief of chiefs;
Life beyond death granted the Children of Albion!

Kingship wrought of Infinite Virtue,
Quick-forged by the Swift Sure Hand;
Bold in Righteousness,
Valiant in Justice,
A sword of honor to defend the Clans of Albion!

Formed of the Nine Sacred Elements,
Framed by the Lord of Love and Light;
Grace of Grace, Truth of Truth,
Summoned in the Day of Strife,
An Aird Righ to reign forever in Albion!

I awakened in the dark of night. I was lying on a yellow oxhide in my hut in the crannog, but I do not know how I came to be there. The air was still and calm, the heat of the day lingered even yet. At first I thought it was the echo of the Song that had awakened me. I lay without moving, listening in the darkness. After a time I heard the sound again and felt the faint stirring of a cooling breeze on my face.

I rose then and went out as the thunder echoed across the heavens and the first drops of rain began to fall—fat, round beads of waters. And I smelled the fresh scent of cool rain-washed air.

Thunder rumbled again and there came a noise not heard in Albion for far too long: the sound of wind and rain sweeping across the surrounding hills. The storm-music filled the glen and echoed through the forest as the rain swept down from Druim Vran and out across the lake towards Dinas Dwr.

Out from the huts and hall the people came, wakened by the storm. They lifted their eyes to the sky and let the blessed rain splash their upturned faces. Lightning flashed and thunder answered with its booming call, and the rain fell harder. Eager hands cupped water and laved it over dry limbs and heat-wearied heads; men laughed and kissed their wives; children danced barefoot as the water soaked them to the skin.

My inner vision quickened once more to the laughter of rejoicing and relief. With my inward eye, I saw hills greening, streams gushing, and rivers flowing again. I saw cattle growing sleek and crops ripening in the fields; apple trees bending under the weight of their fruit, and walnuts, hazelnuts and beechnuts swelling inside their shells. Fish sported in clear lakes, while ducks, geese, and swans nested in the shallows. Milk frothed foamy white and mead glowed golden in the bowl; rich brown ale filled the cups, and good dark bread filled the ovens; meat of all kinds—pork, venison, beef, fish, poultry—heaped the platters. All through Albion the hungry ate and were filled; the thirsty drank and were refreshed.

For the long oppression of drought and death was ended. Silver Hand had begun his reign.

I
NTERVIEW WITH THE
A
UTHOR

Publisher Allen Arnold read the Song of Albion books when they were first published fifteen years ago. He has re-read them a few times since, and recently was able to ask Stephen Lawhead some questions about this exceptional trilogy and the world of Albion.

Arnold: You surprised many readers of
The Paradise War
when, in this second novel, you switched the narrative voice from Llew to Tegid–an interesting choice.

Lawhead:
We needed to see the world through someone else's eyes, even if those eyes were blind. Tegid seemed a good narrator for the second book because there was a lot of arcane material that had to be understood by the reader in order for the story to proceed. Who better to explain these things than a bard? As Tegid explained things to Llew, so he enlightened the reader.

We also needed an outside perspective on Llew. Tegid persuade us of Llew's growing greatness as a king–something Llew himself would not have been able to do without coming across as an arrogant megalomaniac.

A: I have noticed that, where trilogies are concerned, the second novel tends to be the darkest and often the hardest for the author to write since it's neither the beginning or ending but the murky middle filled with struggle but no resolution. Was that true with this novel?

L:
Perhaps. I know that Tolkien almost despaired of having any readers left at the end of
The Two Towers
—the second book in the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

I don't think
The Silver Hand
is terribly dark. I see it as an important bridge between the innocence of book one,
The Paradise War
, and the maturity of book three,
The Endless Knot
, and there was a lot of fun to be had along the way. In this second book, I get to stir the pot without worrying too much about how it is all going to end.

A: Where does the idea of the silver hand come from? Was that planned from the beginning of book one?

L:
It is part of Celtic philosophy regarding kingship: the maimed man cannot be king. This makes good practical sense in a culture where the king is primarily a commander who leads other warriors into battle. The old Celts chose able-bodied men as kings since a man with a gimpy leg or a withered arm would not have been able to run very well, or swing a sword; a maimed king would have been a liability for his companions on the battlefield.

And yet, there is this recurring idea of the ‘maimed king' and it turns up from time to time in various legends–the Wounded King in the Arthurian mythos is an echo of this notion, for example. Certainly, the concept is central to the Llew Silverhand story found in ancient sources: the maimed king who is somehow made greater in his weakness.

A: The stories and songs within this series have an authentic, powerful aura to them. Describe the process of creating them.

L:
Each of the books has a story-within-a-story section in which the inner story being told, usually by the bard Tegid, reflects the central theme of the book in which it is found. If they have a powerful aura, it is because they are adapted from genuine tales that come down to us from the ancient Celts. I wanted to keep as many elements in the stories that the old Celts themselves would have recognized—these stories serve that purpose.

That's the basis for the stories and songs. As for the process of creating them . . . I honestly don't know what happens, they just flow from the acquired template. But I do enjoy writing those passages.

A: I think your fans are very much drawn to Tegid. Do you also find him to be a magnetic personality?

L:
Tegid is a bard—in many ways the ideal bard. He possesses power that he never wields for himself, but only ever for the good of his king, who he supports, and his people, who he represents. Like all good bards, he is also a great story-teller and because of his vast knowledge of so many things–medicine, natural lore, history, law—he's a good friend to have in a tight spot. Sure, I'm drawn to a character like that.

A: In an early review of this novel, the reviewer said it was “an epic struggle between Light and Darkness . . .” Share your thoughts on how this epic struggle plays out in both worlds.

L:
The key motivation for the adventure is the fact that what happens in one world affects the other; there is a subtle and intimate connection. In Albion, the mechanism governing this connection is breaking down and things are leaking through. This is why Lewis was “sent” over to Albion in the first place, to heal the rift and put things back the way they were supposed to be. Of course, the powers at work for destruction oppose this effort, and they are seen as powers of darkness working against the light of creation which infuses each world.

Having said all that, I think that most epic fiction is concerned with the struggle between good and evil, light and darkness—this is typical of the genre. I keep hoping that someone will pick up on the theme that I am really trying to explore: the nature of sovereignty.