Across the glen and up into the low hills beyond, the way was straight; they had ridden directly without turning aside or halting. Why? I wondered. Perhaps they had raced.
I pounced on the idea. Yes, they had raced. That would explain the resolute directness of the trail. I expected that upon reaching the hill, we would find where they had stopped to catch their breath before turning back.
Once across the crest of the first hill, however, this certainty began to fade. The tracks did not alter. The double trail led up the hillside and over—without varying, without stopping.
I paused atop the hill to look back briefly. Druim Vran looked like a wall behind us, blank and unbreachable, with the glen flat as a floor below. The beacon fire would have been seen from every hilltop in the realm—though not, I reflected, in Dinas Dwr itself. It might have been lit at any time and we would not have seen it. I turned away and pursued Drustwn’s lead, grim urgency mounting within me.
It was in the next valley that we found where the women had stopped.
Drustwn halted, stiffened in the saddle, and called Cynan and me to him at once. The rest of the search party were still behind us at a little distance. The Raven’s eyes were mere slits as he scanned the tracks.
“What have you found?” Cynan demanded.
“They stopped here, lord,” he said, stretching a hand toward the marks on the ground.
I looked and saw what had upset him. My heart fell. “How many?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady. “How many were there?”
“I make it three or four. Five at the most. Not more.”
“Saeth du,” Cynan muttered. “Five . . .”
I stared hard at the trampled snow. The confusion of tracks defied explanation. Clearly, the women had met someone. No one had dismounted; there were no footprints among the hoofmarks.
“They rode on that way,” Drustwn said, looking to the east. I could see that he was right. I also saw that a decision was required.
I waited until the others had gathered around us and showed them what Drustwn had discovered. There was much muttering and mumbling over this, but I cut it short. The day was hastening from us. “Garanaw!” I said, calling on the first man to meet my eye. “You, Niall, and Emyr will return to Dinas Dwr. Tell Tegid what we have found here, and then gather provisions and supplies. Cynan and I will ride ahead. Make haste and join us as soon as you can.”
Cynan was quick to catch the meaning of my words. He immediately ordered Gweir and four of his band to go with the three Ravens to help carry the provisions. He was evidently thinking, as I was, that we might well be on the trail longer than anyone intended. A depressing thought. Neither of us spoke a word of this to the other, however, and as soon as the riders had departed we pressed on.
The muddled tracks soon reconciled themselves: two horses going side-by-side close together—the two women, I assumed—with a rider on either side a little distance apart; one rider to lead the way and another to follow close behind. That was four strangers accounted for. If there were more, we saw no sign.
The trail led eastward, staying on the low ground, winding through the creases between hills rather than crossing them directly. Clearly, they were in no hurry, seeking instead to stay out of sight.
I had no doubt now that the tracks we followed were already a day old. I knew also that we would not find Goewyn and Tángwen sheltering in the heather somewhere, waiting for us to rescue them. They had been taken. Stolen. Abducted.
I still could not face the implications of that. Indeed, I put the thought from me whenever it surfaced and concentrated instead on pursuing the trail. I would not speculate on what awaited me at the end.
The sallow sun faded as it passed midday and sank toward dusk on its low Sollen arc. We rode on—a long time, I think, because, when I looked again, clouds had closed over the place and the snow that had held off all day began to fall in icy pellets that bounced where they hit.
I imagined the snow striking Goewyn, becoming caught in her hair and eyelashes. I imagined her lips blue and trembling. I imagined her shoulders shaking as she cast anxious glances behind her, searching the empty trail, hoping to see me riding to her rescue.
We stopped at a brook to rest and water the horses. The snow fell in undulating sheets. I knelt and scooped icy water to my mouth, then went to where Cynan stood staring across the narrow strip of black water.
“The tracks continue on the other side,” he said, without taking his eyes from the place. “They did not even stop for water.”
“No,” I said.
“Then we should not stop, either,” he snapped. He was worried about Tángwen and the strain was telling on him.
“They have a fair lead on us, brother,” I pointed out. “We do not know how long we must ride until we catch them. We must nurse our strength.”
He did not like me saying it but knew I spoke the truth. “How could this happen?” he demanded.
“The blame is mine. I should never have allowed them to go. I was not thinking.”
Cynan turned his face toward me; his blue eyes were almost black. “I do not blame you, brother,” he said, though his tone was reproach enough. “The deed is done. That is all. Now it must be undone.”
When everyone, men and horses, had drunk their fill, we moved on.
The snow stopped just before sundown, and the sky cleared slightly in the west. The setting sun flared with a violent red-orange and then plunged behind the lonely hills. The too-short winter day was ended, but we rode on until it grew too dark to see. We made camp in a narrow valley in the wind shadow of a broad hill, huddled close to our fires.
We had nothing to eat, so passed a hungry night. It was midday the next day before those who had returned for provisions reached us. By riding through the night, they managed to catch us before sundown. We paused then to eat and feed the horses, before going on.
The trail we pursued led unerringly east. Long before I heard the far-off crash of the sea against the rocky shore I knew the trail would end at the coast. And when, as another sun set on another cold day, we stood on a wind-battered dune looking at the freezing, foam-blown waves, their ceaseless thunder loud in our ears, I knew beyond all doubt that Goewyn no longer remained in Albion.
In the fast-falling twilight, we fanned out along the strand and found tracks in the sand. Hope kindled bright for a moment, but died when we found one of the women’s horses: loose, empty-saddled, trailing its reins along the beach. It was Tángwen’s horse, and its discovery plunged Cynan into a frenzy of distress.
“Why one horse only?” he demanded, jerking the reins through his fist. “What does it mean?”
“I do not know,” I told him. “Perhaps she tried to escape.”
“It makes no sense!” he steamed. “None of this makes sense. Even if she tried to escape and they caught her, why would they leave her horse but take the others?” He glared at me as if I were withholding answers to his questions.
“Brother, I cannot say what happened here. I wish I could.”
Too agitated to stand still, he lashed his mount to speed and galloped away along the shore. I was about to follow him up the coast when Drustwn hailed me. He had discovered two long deep grooves in the sand—grooves made by the keels of boats which had been beached above the tideline.
While two of Cynan’s men rode to recall their lord, I dismounted and stood over one of the keel marks and gazed east across the sea toward Tir Aflan. Somewhere beyond those raw waves, hard and dark as slate, my bride awaited rescue.
I turned from the empty sea, my face burning with rage and frustration. Bran Bresal, who had been standing silently beside me, said, “I think they will not be found in Albion.”
“Yet, I tell you they will be found,” I declared. “Send two men back to the crannog. Bring Tegid; I want him with me. Scatha will want to come, but she is to remain to protect Dinas Dwr.”
“At once, lord.” The Chief Raven wheeled his horse and clattered away over the pebbled
shingle.
“Cynan!” I shouted. “Cynan, here!”
A moment later he joined me. “Send men to bring the boats. We will make camp and await them here.”
He hesitated, cocking an eye at the sky, and seemed about to gainsay the plan. Instead, he said, “Done.”
Cynan wheeled away, calling for Gweir to join him. I pulled the winter fleece covering from my saddle and spread it on the wet shingle. Then, setting my face to the sea as it gnashed the shore, I sat down to begin the long wait.
18
THE GEAS
OF TREÁN AP GOLAU
We waited three days for the ships to arrive, and then three more. Each day was slow torture. Just after daybreak on the seventh day, four ships arrived from the winter harborage in the south Caledon estuary where Cynan kept them. He commanded the men to stand ready, and then we returned to our camp on the strand to await Tegid’s arrival. The bard appeared just before sunset; Scatha, who would not be left behind, rode with him.
“My daughter has been taken,” she said by way of greeting, “I mean to aid in her release.”
There was no denying her, so I said, “As you will, Pen-y-Cat. May your presence be a boon to us.”
Tegid explained. “As Scatha meant to join us, I summoned Calbha to watch over Dinas Dwr. That is why we could not come sooner.”
I was not pleased with this development. “Let us hope your thoughtless delay has not cost the lives of either Goewyn or Tángwen.” I turned away and hastened to ready the ships to sail, calling for torches to be lit and for the provisions to be loaded.
“It will be dark soon, and there will be no moon tonight,” Bran pointed out, stirring himself from the fretful silence of the last days. “We should wait until morning.”
“We have wasted too much time already,” Cynan told him. “We sail at once.”
Tegid dismounted and hurried to my side. “There is something else, Llew,” he said.
“It can wait until we have raised sail.”
“You must hear it now,” the bard insisted.
I turned on him. “I will hear it when I choose! I have waited on this freezing shore for seven days. Seven days! At this moment I am interested in just one thing: rescuing Goewyn. If what you have to say will accomplish that the quicker, then say it. If not, I do not want to hear it.”
Tegid’s face became hard; his eyes flashed quick-kindled fire. “And yet you will hear it, O Mighty King,” he snapped, fighting to control himself.
I made to turn away from him, but he caught me by the wrist of my silver hand and held me. Anger glared hot within me. “Take your hand off me, bard. Or lose it!”
Several bystanders saw what was happening and stopped to watch—Scatha and Cynan among them. Tegid released me and raised his hand over his head in the way of a declaiming bard.
“Hear me, Llew Llaw Eraint!” he said, spitting the words. “You are Aird Righ of Albion, and thus you are set about by many geas.”
“Taboos? Save your breath,” I growled. “I do not care!” I was doubly angry now. He had disobeyed my commands and put us many days behind, and now had the audacity to hinder us further, talking about some ridiculous taboo or other. “My wife is abducted! Cynan’s bride is gone! Whatever it takes, I will have them back. Do you understand that? I will give the entire kingdom to obtain their release!”
“The kingdom is not yours to give,” the bard declared flatly. “It belongs to the people who shelter beneath your protection. All you possess is the kingship.”
“I will not stand here arguing with you, bard. Stay here if that is what you wish. I am leaving.”
Holding me with his voice, he said, “I say you cannot go.”
I stared at him—speechless with rage.
“The Aird Righ of Albion cannot leave his realm,” he announced. “That is the principal geas of your reign.”
Had he lost his mind? “What are you saying? I have left before. I have traveled—”
Tegid shook his head, and I grasped his point. Since becoming king, I had never set foot outside Albion’s borders. Apparently, this was forbidden me now for some obscure reason. “Explain,” I snapped. “And be quick about it.”
Tegid simply replied, “It is forbidden the High King to leave the Island of the Mighty—at any time, for any reason.”
“Unless I hear a better explanation than that,” I told him, “you will soon find yourself standing here alone. I have ordered the ships to sail, and I mean to be aboard the first one when it departs.”
“The ships may depart. Your men may depart,” he said softly. “But you, O King, may not so much as set foot beyond this shore.”
“My wife is out there! And I am going to find her.” I made to turn away again.
“I say you will not leave Albion and remain Aird Righ,” he insisted, emphasizing each word.
“Then I will no longer be king!” I spat. “So be it! One way or another, I am going to find my wife.”
If my kingship would bring her back, I would give it a thousand times over. She was my life, my soul; I would give everything to save her.
Scatha stood looking on impassively. I understood now why she had come, and why Tegid had disobeyed my explicit order. She knew that I would not be able to leave Albion, and she assumed that once I understood the problem I would change my mind. But I was adamant.
I glanced at Cynan, who stood pulling his moustache and gazing thoughtfully at me. I raised my hand and pointed at him. “Give the kingship to Cynan,” I said. “Let him be Aird Righ.”
But Cynan only grunted. “I am going.”
“Then give the sovereignty to Scatha,” I said.
Scatha also declined. “I am going to find my daughter,” she said. “I will not remain behind.”
I turned at once to Bran, only to see him reject the offer as well. “My place is by your side, lord,” was all he would say.
“Will no one take the kingship?” I demanded. But no eye met mine, and no one answered. It was rapidly growing dark, and I was quickly losing what little remaining dignity I possessed.
Whirling on Tegid as if on an attacker, I said, “You see how it is.”
“I see,” replied the bard icily. “Now I want you to see how it is.” With that, he paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. His first words caught me by surprise.
“Treán ap Golau was a king in Albion,” Tegid announced. “Three things he had which were all his renown: the love of beautiful women; invincibility in battle; and the loyalty of good men. One thing he had which was his travail: it was the geas of his people that he must never hunt boar. And this is the way of it . . .”
I glared at him. A story! He meant to tell me a story. I could not believe it. “I do not have time for this, Tegid,” I protested.
His head came up, his eyes flew open, and he fixed me with a baleful stare. “One day,” he intoned icily, “when the king is out hunting with his war band, there arises a fearful grunting and growling, like that of a wild beast. So great is the noise that it shakes the trees to their roots and the very hills from top to bottom, cracking the rocks and cleaving the boulders. Once, twice, three times, the mighty grunting sounds, each time louder and more terrible than the last.
“King Treán cries to Cet, his wise bard, ‘This sound must be silenced, or every living thing in the land will die! Let us find the beast that is causing this din and kill it at once.’
“To this, Penderwydd Cet replies, ‘That is more easily said than done, Mighty King. For this sound is made by none other than the Boar of Badba, an enchanted beast without ears or tail, but with tusks the size of your champion’s spears and twice as sharp. What is more, it has already killed and eaten three hundred men today, and it is still hungry. This is why it grunts and growls so as to sunder the world.’
“When Treán ap Golau hears this, he says, ‘A boar and a bane it may be, but if I do not stop this beast there will be nothing left of my realm.’
“With that, the king rides to meet
the monster and finds it tearing at a broken yew tree to sharpen its tusks. Thinking to take it with the first blow, he charges the Boar of Badba. But the giant pig sees him coming and looses such a horrible growl that the king’s horse falls to its knees with fright, and Treán is thrown to the ground.
“The enchanted boar charges the fallen king. Treán hefts his spear, takes aim, and lets it fly. Closer and closer drives the boar. The spear flies true, striking the pig in the center of its forehead. But the spear does not so much as crease the boar’s thick hide, and it bounces away.
“The boar closes in on the king. Treán draws his sword, and slash! Slash! But the solid blade flies to pieces in his hand, while the pig remains unharmed. Indeed, not even a single bristle is cut.
“Down goes the boar’s head, and up goes the king. He clings for a moment to the pig’s back, but the frenzied beast shakes him off with such fury that the king is thrown high into the air. The king lands squarely on the yew tree: the splintered trunk pierces his body, and he hangs there, impaled on the yew. And the king dies.
“Seeing this, the Boar of Badba begins to devour the king. The beast tears at the dead king’s limbs. He devours the king’s right arm and the king’s right hand, still clutching the hilt of his shattered sword. The broken blade sticks in the beast’s throat, and the Boar of Badba chokes on it and dies.
“The king’s companions run to aid the king, but Treán ap Golau is dead.” Looking directly at me, Tegid said, “Here ends the tale of King Treán, let him hear it who will.”
I shook my head slowly. If, by telling me this tale, he had hoped to discourage me, he would be disappointed. My mind was made up.
“I hear your tale, bard,” I told him. “And a most portentous tale it is. But if I must break this geas, so be it!”
The Endless Knot Page 19
