I raised my silver hand to him. “It is cold, Tegid. Like ice.”
He bent down and touched the metal hand thoughtfully. “It feels the same to me,” he offered, straightening once more. “Tell me about the hunt.”
“Three pigs,” I began, haltingly. “They gave us a good hunt. We chased them—deep into the forest. One escaped. We followed two into a clearing. There was a dolmen and ring. We chased one of the pigs around the dolmen and . . . and then it disappeared.”
“The dolmen?”
I cast a quick, disgusted glance at the bard to see if he was baiting me. “The pig. The pig disappeared. I saw it go, and I know where it went.”
“Did the others see it?” he asked.
“That is hardly the point—is it?” I spat.
Tegid watched me closely.
“I have seen the pig before,” I told him. “Before I came to Albion, I saw that pig. It is just like the aurochs, you see?”
Tegid did not see. How could he? So I explained to him about the aurochs—the aurochs we had hunted on our flight to Findargad, and which had disappeared into a mound the same way the pig had vanished.
“But we killed it,” Tegid protested. “We ate its meat and it fed us.”
“There were two! ” I said. “One disappeared and the other we killed. That aurochs is what brought Simon and me to Albion; the one we chased that day was the one that brought us. And the pig I chased today was the one I saw before I came.”
Tegid shook his head slowly. “I hear you, brother, but I still do not understand why this upsets you,” he said. “It is unfortunate, but—”
“Unfortunate!”
Tegid stood looking at me for a moment, then sat down facing me. He settled himself and said, “If you want me to understand, you must tell me what it means.” He spoke slowly, but crisply. He was restraining himself, but with obvious effort.
“It means,” I said, closing my eyes again, “that Nettles was wrong. The balance is not restored. The Knot—the Endless Knot is still unraveling.”
12
THE RETURN OF THE KING
Though Tegid and I talked at length, I was unable to make him grasp the significance of the vanishing pig. Probably I could not explain it properly, or at least in a way he could understand. He seemed willing enough, but my explanation lacked some element crucial to persuasion. I could not make him see the danger.
“Tegid,” I said at last, “it is late and I am tired. Let us get something to eat.”
Tegid agreed that might be best; he rose stiffly and left the tent. Gloom and doom had so permeated my thoughts that I was amazed to find a stunning sunset in progress—pink, carnelian, copper, wine, and fuchsia flung in gorgeous splashes against a radiant hyacinth sky. I blinked my eyes and stood staring at it for a moment. The air was warm still, with just a hint of evening’s chill. Soon the stars would come out, and we would be treated to yet another spectacle of almost staggering grandeur.
Through all its travails, Albion still endured. How was that possible? What preserved it? What sustained it in the very teeth of cataclysm and disaster?
“What do you see?” asked Goewyn softly.
“I see a miracle,” I replied. “I see it and I wonder how such things can endure.”
Upon seeing Tegid emerge from the tent, Goewyn had quickened her step to meet me. She had kept herself away from the tent while Tegid and I talked, but now she was eager to discover the subject of our discussion. “Are you hungry?” she asked, taking my flesh hand in hers. She did not say that she had been waiting long; the curiosity in her dark brown eyes was evident enough.
“I am sorry,” I told her. “I did not mean to exclude you. Tegid and I were talking. You should have joined us.”
“When a king and his bard hold council, no one must intrude,” she replied. There was no irritation in her tone, and I realized that despite her curiosity, which was only natural, she would have fought anyone who tried to disturb us.
“Next time I will send for you, Goewyn,” I said. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”
“You are troubled, Llew.” She reached a cool hand to my forehead and smoothed my hair back. “Walk. Take your ease. I will have food brought to the tent and await you there.”
“No, walk with me. I do not want to be alone just now.”
So we walked together a while. We did not talk. Goewyn’s undemanding presence was a balm to my agitated spirit, and I began to relax somewhat. As the stars began to waken in the sky, we returned to the tent. “Rest now. I will see that food is brought.” She moved away, and I watched her go. My heart soared to see her in motion. I loved every curving line.
My melancholy lifted at once. Here was love and life, full and free before me. Here was a soul shining like a beacon flame, shining for me. I wanted to gather her in my arms and hold her forever.
Never leave me, Goewyn.
Entering the tent once more, I found Tegid and Bran waiting. Tegid had also rousted Cynan from his tent and brought him along. Rushlights had been lit and placed on stands around the perimeter of the tent, casting a rosy glow over the interior. They ceased talking when I appeared.
“This was not necessary, Tegid,” I told him.
“You are troubled, brother,” the bard replied. “I have failed to console you, so I brought your chieftains to attend you.”
I thanked them all for coming and insisted that it was not necessary to attend me. “I have Goewyn to console me,” I explained.
“It is unfortunate that the pig got away,” Bran sympathized. “But we can find another one tomorrow.”
“The hunting runs are full of them,” offered Cynan helpfully.
Shaking my head gently, I tried once more to explain. “It is not the pig. I do not care about the pig. It is what the pig’s disappearance represents that worries me. Do you see that?”
I could tell by the way they looked at me that they did not see at all. I tried again.
“There is trouble,” I said. “There is a balance between this world and my world, and that balance has been disturbed. I thought defeating Siawn Hy and Meldron would restore the balance—Nettles thought so too. But he was wrong, and now . . .”
The blank stares brought my lecture to an abrupt halt. I had lost them again.
“If there is trouble, we will soon know it,” Bran suggested. “And we will conquer it.”
Spoken like a fighting man. “It is not that kind of trouble,” I answered.
“We are more than a match for any enemy,” Cynan boasted. “Let it come. There is no enemy we cannot defeat.”
“It is not that simple, Cynan.” I sighed, shaking my head again. “Believe me, I wish it were.”
Tegid, desperate to help, observed, “The Banfáith’s prophecy has proven true through all things. All that has happened, and all that is yet to happen, is contained in the prophecy.”
“There, you see?” agreed Cynan with satisfaction. “There is nothing to worry about. We have the prophecy to guide us if trouble should come. There is nothing to worry about.”
“You do not understand,” I said wearily. It was as if a gulf stood between us—a gulf as wide and deep as that which separates the worlds, perhaps. Maybe there was no way for them to cross that gap. If Professor Nettleton were here, he would know what it meant . . . or would he? He had been wrong about my remaining in Albion; obviously there was still some work for me to finish. Then again, maybe he was right; maybe it was my lingering presence that was causing the trouble.
I almost groaned with the effort of trying to make sense of it. Why, oh why, was this so difficult?
“If it is understanding we lack,” the bard exhorted, “then let us look to the prophecy.” Pressing the palms of his hands together, he touched his fingertips to his lips and drew a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he began, speaking with quiet intensity, to declaim the prophecy given me by Gwenllian, Banfáith of Ynys Sci.
I needed no help in recalling the prophecy; I remembered the Banfáith’s words as
if they were engraved on my heart. Still, each time I heard those stern, unforgiving words spoken aloud, I felt the thrill in my gut. This time it was more than a thrill, however; I felt the distinct tug of a power beyond my ken bearing me along—destiny, perhaps? I do not know. But it was as if I was standing on a seastrand with the tide flowing around me; I could feel its irresistible pull. Events like waves had gathered and now were moving, bearing me along. I could resist—I could swim against the tide, but I would be carried along anyway in the end.
Tegid came to the end of the recitation, saying, “Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.”
This last seemed to please both Bran and Cynan immensely. Bran nodded sagely, and Cynan folded his arms across his chest as if he had carried the day. “Silver Hand reigns!” he declared proudly. “And when the Cylchedd is complete, Albion will be united once again under the Aird Righ.”
“That is surely the way of it,” enthused Bran.
I remained unconvinced but had run out of arguments. Then Goewyn arrived with one of her maidens bringing our supper, and so I decided to let the matter rest for the time being. If anything was seriously wrong, Professor Nettleton would surely return to tell me so, or send a message to me somehow.
“Let us hope that is the way of it,” I agreed reluctantly and then dismissed them to their own tents and to their rest.
“We will remain vigilant, lord,” Bran vowed as he left. “That is all we can do.”
“True, Bran. Very true.”
He and Cynan filed out, followed by Tegid, who, though he appeared anxious to tell me something, merely gazed at Goewyn for a moment, bade her a good night’s rest, and went out, leaving us alone to share our meal and my misery.
“Eat something, husband,” Goewyn prodded gently. “A man cannot think or fight on an empty stomach.”
She lifted a bowl under my nose. The aroma of boiled meat in thick, salty broth made my mouth water. Taking the bowl in my silver hand, I dipped my fingers in and began eating. My mind turned again to the harsh promises of the prophecy, and I ate in silence, ignoring Goewyn as she sat directly before me.
“Here, my love,” she said after a time, drawing me from my thoughts. “For you.” I looked up to see her break a small loaf of brown bread in her hands. She smiled, extending half the loaf to me.
A small gesture: her hand reaching out to me—as if she would thwart all the unknown hazards of the future with a bit of broken bread—it was so humble and trifling against such overwhelming uncertainty. Yet, in that moment, it was enough.
The next day we resumed the circuit, and all went as it had before. Nothing terrible happened. The earth did not open before our feet and swallow us whole; the sky did not fall; the sun did not deviate from its appointed course. And, when evening came, the moon rose to shed a friendly light upon the land. All was as it should be.
After a few such uneventful days, I began to persuade myself that the wild pig’s disappearance was merely a lingering ripple in the disturbance caused by Simon and Meldron; a simple, small, isolated event, it foreshadowed no great catastrophe. Albion was healing itself, yes, but it would be unrealistic to expect everything to return to normal overnight. Undoubtedly, the healing process would go on for a long time. And after all, my reign was, as Cynan and Tegid implied, a major element of that recovery. How could I think otherwise?
Maffar, sweetest of seasons, had run its course full and fair, and Gyd, season of sun, was well begun before we at last turned the wagons north. I was glad to have made the circuit, but more so now that it was finished. I missed Dinas Dwr and all the friends we had left behind. And I wanted to see what had been accomplished in my absence.
The southern leg of the journey completed, Cynan and Tángwen bid us farewell, but not before I extracted a promise to winter with us in Dinas Dwr. “Favor us with the pleasure of your company. Our hall is a cow byre compared to yours,” I declared. “And it is as cold beside the hearth as on the hilltop when the snow drifts deep. But it would be less wretched if you would deign to share our meager fare.”
“Mo anam! ” Cynan cried. “Do you expect me to refuse such a generous offer? See the cups are filled, brother—it is Cynan Machae at your gate when the wind howls in the rooftrees!”
He and Tángwen returned to Dun Cruach, and we proceeded on to Sarn Cathmail. Once we had set our faces toward home, my impatience knew no bounds. We could not move swiftly enough. Each day’s distance brought us no nearer, or so it seemed to me, yet with every step my eagerness increased; like thirst burning in a parched throat, I ached with it.
It was not until the land began to lift and I saw the high hills glimmering in the blue heat haze that I began to feel we were at last returning. On the day I saw Môn Dubh, I could contain myself no longer. I rode ahead, with Goewyn at my side, and would likely have left the others far behind if Tegid had not prevented us.
“You cannot return this way,” he said when he had caught up with us. “Allow your people to make ready a proper welcome.”
“Just seeing Dinas Dwr again is welcome enough for me,” I insisted. “We could have been there by now if you had not stopped us. We will go ahead. Let the rest come along in their own good time.”
He shook his head firmly. “One more day, then you will enter your city and receive the welcome due a king. I will send Emyr ahead to prepare the way for you.” He turned a deaf ear to my protests and insisted, “We have observed the rite without flaw. Let us complete it likewise.”
Goewyn sided with him. “Let it be as your wise bard advises,” she urged. “It is only one more day, and your people will be grateful for the opportunity of anticipating the return of their king and welcoming you back in a manner worthy of your rank.”
So Emyr Lydaw was sent ahead to announce our arrival. I spent one more night in a tent on the trail. Like a child on the eve of a celebration, I was too excited to sleep. I lay in the tent, tossing this way and that, and finally rose and went out to walk away my restlessness.
It was dark, the moon high overhead and bright. The camp was quiet. I heard a tawny owl calling and the answering call of his mate a short distance away. I looked up at the sound and saw a ghostly shape flickering through the treetops. The surrounding hills were softly outlined against a sky of silver-flecked jet. All was dark and quiet and as it should be except for one small detail: a spark-bright glimmer on the crest of a faraway hill.
I watched for a moment before realizing what it was: a beacon. In the same instant, I felt a chill in my silver hand, a sharp, cold stab.
I turned to scan the hilltops behind me but saw no answering flare. I wondered what the signal fire betokened and thought to fetch Tegid from his bed to show it to him. But the beacon faded and, with its departure, my own certainty of what I had seen. Perhaps it was nothing more than the campfire of hunters; or maybe Scatha had set watchers along the ridge to warn of our approach.
Stalking the perimeter of the camp, I spoke briefly with the guards at the horse picket, but they had seen nothing. I finished my inspection of the camp and returned to my tent. I lay down on the fleece and fell asleep listening to Goewyn’s deep, slow breathing.
I awakened early the next morning, dressed quickly, and proceeded to make a general nuisance of myself by urging everyone to hurry. We were but a day’s march from Druim Vran, and with all speed we would reach the lake at sunset and dine at Dinas Dwr that night.
By midday I could see the dark line of Raven Ridge, and I thought we would never arrive. Nevertheless, as the sun began sinking low in the west, we entered the broad plain spreading before the ridge wall. The shadow of the gorsedd mound stretched long across the plain, and the looming mass of Druim Vran soared above it.
All along the ridge stood the people, my people, waiting to welcome us home. My heart soared at the sight.
“Listen,” said Goewyn, tilting her head. “They are singing.”
We were too far away to hear the words, but the voices fell
like a fine, sweet rain splashing down from on high. I halted on the trail, swiveled in the saddle, and called to Tegid, “Do you hear? What are they singing?”
He rode to join me and halted to listen a moment, then smiled. “It is Arianrhod’s Greeting,” he said. “It is the song Arianrhod sings to her lover when she sees him sailing over the waves to rescue her.”
“Is it?” I wondered. “I have never heard that story,” I said.
“It is a beautiful tale,” Tegid said. “I will sing it to you sometime.”
I turned my face to the heights and listened to the glad sound. I would not have imagined that the sight of my people standing along the ridge wall and singing their welcome to the valley below could touch me so deeply. My eyes grew misty with tears at the sound; truly, I had come home.
13
THE AIRD RIGH’S MILL
Hie! Hie!” cried Goewyn as she galloped past. “I thought you were eager to reach home!” she shouted.
I lashed my mount to speed and raced after her. She gained the ridge wall before me and, without slackening her pace, flew straight up the track. I followed in a hail of dust and pebbles thrown up by the horses’ hooves, but could not catch her. She reached the top first and slipped from the saddle, turning to await me.
“Welcome home, O King,” she said.
I threw a leg over the neck of my horse and slid to the ground beside her. “Lady, I claim a welcome kiss,” I said, pulling her to me. The crowd came running to meet us, and we were soon pressed on every side by eager well-wishers.
What a glad greeting it was! The tumult was heartfelt and loud, the reception dizzying. We were soon engulfed in a heady swirl of welcome. Scatha appeared in the forefront of the press. She seized her daughter in her arms and held her; Pen-y-Cat hugged me next, clasping me tightly to her, and, taking my hand and one of Goewyn’s, she gazed at us with shining eyes and declared, “Welcome, my children.”
She kissed us both and held us together before her while her eyes drank in the sight. “I have missed you both,” she said. Then, fixing each one of us in her gaze, she asked, “It is just the two of you?”
The Endless Knot Page 14
