Gweniver rose and came to join Arthur where he stood. "Our thanks, lord," she said. "To Nudd who is king beneath the hill, and to those whose arms did strike these blows for both our weals."
"We are Kelts also, Lady," he said somberly, giving Gwen her title as Ard-rian. "In all matters such as bear upon Keltia’s need, we are as true lieges of the Copper Crown as any other dweller on any Keltic world."
"And in other matters?" asked Ygrawn, speaking for the first time.
"There we are true liege also," said Allyn, and such a light came in his eyes then that forbade any further query.
"You know we have been bidden depart from Keltia to fight the invaders," said Arthur then, and Allyn nodded once. "Is there aught other word you bring us from Glenshee, or from any who dwell there?"
"Naught but that which you have heard many times before now," replied Allyn after a moment’s pause. "And of which you need not be minded. But I do have a word for Taliesin Pen-bardd," he added, turning again to me, and I rose to stand at my place of Gwencathra to hear his words. "Seven alone returned from Caer Vediwid," he said, in the bardic intonation, and I caught my breath, remembering…
"And for thee," he said then, turning to Morgan and speaking in the High Gaeloch that the Sidhe commonly used amongst themselves, "a word from thy teacher: that thou shalt have the wish of thy heart for thy folk, and all thy work be lasting work."
What that wish might be, that work, he did not say; but Morgan plainly knew very well what was meant, for she heard his words and took them in with—not a smile, more a sort of shining acceptance that seemed to make her larger than herself.
And that appeared to conclude Allyn mhic Midna’s embassage to Turusachan, for he made his farewells to Arthur and Gweniver and Ygrawn (with a special one for Donah, and greeting given to her to take home to Majanah as well), as to those he should not meet again. To Morgan and to me, a different sort of parting-word, and I for one took comfort in the unspoken promise of another encounter more before the last: But then he was gone, in that way the Sidhe do have; even, it seems, among mortal folk in a mortal city.
Arthur shook himself all over, as a hound will who has just come in from the rain. "Overmuch is sometimes too much," he muttered to himself, then turned to the rest of us, the ghastly coffer still gaping behind him on the board. "My lord Allyn speaks truly," he said then. "Time is soon that we were gone from here."
Gweniver made a swift small movement of protest, instantly caught and halted before Arthur could see it, and I knew she was thinking of the daughter she had within her, knowing perhaps even now that Arwenna Pendreic would never meet her father in this life’s round. But this she would not have him see, nor the rest of us.
"Then let you come with us to the Council and see how we have done while you were doing on Gwynedd," she said lightly, slipping her arm through his. We followed after, a silent threesome, Ygrawn and Donah and myself; and I think all our thoughts were in that moment the same. But we would not have this seen either.
Things moved swiftly from then on; as indeed they must, for we had word from the outpost worlds that a great fleet was drawing near to Keltia, sailing straight. They could have come in through hyperspace, and been at Tara all the quicker; but perhaps they feared the unknown overheaven in our vicinity, and dared not to try it.
With good prudence, I must say, that became them well: We had mined ard-na-speire between all Keltic worlds, mined it near as thick with fearful ship-traps as space-normal is thick with stars. And we had mined that too… But it was never Arthur’s wont to wait when he might venture out to meet his enemy, and choose his own ground. As I have said elsewhere in these chronicles, his eye for ground to his own advantage was all but faultless. Two times only did he choose awry, the first being at Moytura, when our line was set on sand. The second—well, you shall hear.
But first came the preparing and the departing. Much had to be done, and though Gweniver had performed heroics of governance in Arthur’s absence on Gwynedd that were full the equal of his feats in the field, much remained to be attended to. There were forms of succession to be set up should the worst befall, and not just for the Ard-tiarnas alone but for any who were of duchas standing and had aught to leave to heirs. Since both Morgan and Geraint had been ordered by their High King to remain, this consideration troubled me not so much. But one part of it troubled me more than I could quite credit—
"They are not going, and there’s an end to it!" I stared angrily at my son and his mate, and Gerrans and Cristant looked serenely back. "What can you be thinking?" I asked in a calmer tone. "They are but lads; to take them on such a venture—"
"What ‘them’?" asked Gweniver, coming in on the heels of my outburst.
I threw her a black look. "Gerrans and Cristant have just informed me, Ard-rian, that Sgilti and Anghaud are to accompany us on Prydwen."
"So Artos tells me. So then?"
I ran a hand over my beard, which was probably gone gray altogether in the space of the past quarter-hour.
"Oh then, perhaps it is I who am the lackwit here, failing to see why two lads barely out of fosterage should go to war against the Coranians? Do you think? Am I so?"
Morgan spoke from the corner of the chamber, where she had been placidly observing the debate in silence heretofore.
"That’s as may be, Talyn… But why do you object? They have been on training missions before now, as Fian candidates."
I exploded all over again. "Training missions! Oh Goddess help us! They are our grandsons, lady! Would you have them go, Guenna, while even Gerrans remains behind, and he a Fian captain?"
"Gerrans remains for that Artos and I have commanded him," said Gweniver sharply. "We shall have need of him here—I shall have need of him. So many of the old Companions have sought to go with Artos that I would keep whomsoever I might to help me when you go—and after. As for the twins, they are older now than was I when I first saw battle—or you yourself, for that matter, Talynno. Or have you forgot?"
I glared at her, but she returned my glance equably. "I have not forgot, Lady," I said after a while. "But what did we fight so to win for our children, if not the surety that they themselves might never have to know what we were forced to learn at so young an age?"
"Indeed," said Gweniver. "But the case has altered, I think; any road, the lads shall go with their grandsir and their great-uncle, and there’s an end to it."
"Truly, athra-cheile," put in Cristant adroitly, using the formal address to me, ‘mate-father,’ "it will be most well for them. They can be no safer than with you and the Companions as protectors."
In spite of myself, I snorted with laughter. "‘Safe’ and ‘Companions’ have never been two words that ran together, at least not in my remembering. And they would be safer still did they stay behind."
"Enough," said Gweniver, rising from the chair where she had bestowed herself, and I could see from the way she stood that she was weary beyond wisdom for one in her condition, and I was suddenly contrite. "It is decided. Let be, Talyn. There are graver things we must decide than that. The succession, for one."
I looked sharply at her. "What need be decided there? You are Ard-rian. Should Arthur fall, you are still Ard-rian, only then sole monarch over Keltia. In due time, Arawn inherits; or, if not he, then this Arwenna yet to be. What is the difficulty?"
"Oh, only that Marguessan yet maintains she is Ard-rian, by lawful right from Uthyr Ard-righ her father."
"She has ever maintained that," said Morgan quietly. "The folk for the most part have never upheld her in her claim."
"Not until now." Gweniver’s words fell like small dark heavy stones on slate. "You remember that there was great support for Errian of Kerveldin when he made accusation against me—of Marguessan’s doing. And when the Archdruid Ultagh, late by grace of the Sidhe, did proclaim Marguessan rightful High Queen, with Mordryth her Tanist, there were more who approved and swore allegiance than we could have liked—or even imagined."
This was
true, unfortunately, and great was our shame and anger for it. We had over the past years underestimated the current of resentment and hatred that had run like an ice-freshet just below the surface of contentment the folk had, mask-like, worn. There was no real cause for this, mind: Artos and Gwen had done naught but good for Keltia in all the years of their reign, and the people in strictest justice could not complain of their rule, far less claim they had suffered for it.
Nay: The malcontent lay deeper than that; ran in plain truth all the way back to Amris son of Darowen. Marguessan had merely drawn upon their vague discord and chafing, tapping it as one might tap an aquifer to water one’s fields. And her fields had borne full, fell crop.
"Well," I said at length, "I do not think the folk will balk to follow you, Ard-rian, should it come to it that you must lead us alone, and may a merciful Goddess prevent it." I halted abruptly, for I had caught a swift fleeting othersense of where her real disquiet lay… But if she chose not to share it with us her kin just yet, that was the High Queen’s choice; I would for no sake ask of her aught she was not yet prepared to give. There would be enough and too much of that yet to come.
It was not so surprising how swiftly we mobilized: One of the greatest reforms Gwen and Artos had made was that Keltia should never be without a standing army. Never again, they had promised us, should we be caught unawares by an enemy—whether that foe was from within, as Edeyrn, or outfrenne as now we faced.
And with that standing army, a mighty star-navy, and a goodly sea-fleet as well. No possibility had been neglected, no cost spared; and yet all had been so well managed by those whose task it was that, now, all these years after the Marbh-draoi’s downfall, Keltia was not only an armed power but a wealthy one as well—even an empire of sorts, if you count in the Protectorates. Hence the attack that was provocation, with Donah’s abduction, to this very war: on our trading world of Clero, by the Fomori under the deluded Melwas. Well, we would deal with him, and them, soon enough. Just now the more pressing problem was coming at us from their ancient homeworld of Alphor, and to be honest with you—as I have been throughout these chronicles—I did not know if we could stop them.
However, I confided my fears to Morgan alone, when we went down the night before departure to fetch the Hallows, from their hiding place in the Hall of Heroes, and to set them aboard Prydwen as Arthur and I were bidden.
She was not unsympathetic to my fears, but she was perhaps a touch more dismissive than I liked, or needed just then for her to be, and I am sorry to say I snapped at her as seldom I had ever done. But it was her own fault.
I stood back as Arthur, with Gweniver and Morgan, parted the heavy curtains behind the empty Throne of Scone—still with its two high seats before it, as had been the custom all these years—and watched as first the plain stone wall and then the great findruinna gates rolled back, to reveal the open dark mouth of the Nantosvelta, like a huge stone throat beneath the mountains.
Morgan’s hand crept into mine, and I was glad of her touch even as I was shamed for my earlier impatience. I knew she was remembering, as was I, that first time of all times we had stood in this place, and had seen that tall throne of cloud-white granite. She was trembling now, as she had then, and I soothed her with thoughtspeech as I had done before; but the reason this time was a different reason, and I myself was shivering as I watched Arthur and Gweniver lift out the familiar chest, bound with magic equally as with dull dark gold. Then it had been the beginning, and beginnings are ever a time for fear, the fear caused by uncertainty and high hopes. Now it was the end, and the fear at the end of things is the fear of certainty, and of hopes relinquished.
We did not look inside the chest; but closing off again the way to the Nantosvelta, we bore our burden out into the faha where an aircar waited to bear us all to Mardale, where Prydwen lay in skydock being readied for battle. Ferdia was at the field to meet us and see that all went well, and he and Arthur carried the chest aboard, puffing a little at the unexpected (or so they said) heaviness of the thing. But for my part I think the weight of it was largely in their own minds—though I suppose thirteen assorted magical objects might well have a reasonable heft to them. Nay; it was the weight of the power in them that Artos and Feradach were feeling; and that, at least, was not unexpected.
They carried it aft and to deosil in the ship—that would be to the rear and on the right-hand side as you face front, for those of you unused to ships, with sails or without—and into a chamber that opened off a short alcove, a little set apart from the rest. This was Arthur’s own cabin when aboard Prydwen, and mine was right across from it. Though all the cabins on Prydwen were commodious by warship standards, these two were somewhat larger than the rest; and Arthur’s, quite properly, largest of all—perhaps twoscore feet to each of its square sides, and with a ceiling of quilted silver metal ten or twelve feet above the black solenized floor. Spacious indeed for a ship of war; but, having myself sailed in Prydwen for years at a time, I can tell you plain that sometimes it had been that extra cabinspace alone that kept us sane, and our hands off one another’s throats.
The furnishings were by no means kingly—that was never Arthur’s style—but they were handsome and comfortable enough: a wide low bed with a dark fur coverlet, an upholstered chair or two, a carved desk, books and statuary, a little wall-shrine with the small figures of the Goddess and the God known as lamh-dhia, not so much more. Ferdia and Arthur set the chest with the Hallows at the bedfoot, and stood back to survey their placement.
"That feels right," said Ferdia, and Arthur nodded abstractedly, as one who is listening on more than one level at once.
"It will serve," he said, and rather abruptly hustled us all out of the cabin and sealed the door-stud behind him. "The kerns and officers have still much to do to make the ship ready for tomorrow’s sailing," he explained, sensing our surprise. "I made them all leave whilst we put the Hallows aboard—none but ourselves must know, and a few other of the oldest Companions, where they are bestowed—and now they must finish their chores."
He suited action to words by signalling to a bored-looking officer who waited at the far end of the skydock, and then we found ourselves back in the aircar returning to Turusachan. As we drew near Arthur suddenly sent us soaring high above the Loom in a great banking circle, and I knew what he was doing: taking what might well be—nay, be honest about it, what would be—his last look at Caerdroia by night.
It was a sight that was well worth the looking: The lights of the City lay upon the dark lands round like a huge carpet of furry golden moss; then, as we dropped closer in, the moss broke apart into tiny shining spires and squares, with little veins of light running up into the black folds of the hills behind. And above it all was Turusachan, crown of the Crown City, lifting itself against the darkness of the Loom one side and the sea on the other.
No word was spoken. We knew one another too well to need words, and none would have sufficed, any road, not in that place, that moment. But as Arthur made one last sweeping circle out over the sea and mountains and the flat plain below the walls, and then came arrowing in again, I saw in the reflected light of the City that tears glittered upon his cheeks.
And was no whit surprised, for my own face was wet likewise, and I would wager that of all those present. But what surprised me—and in some incalculable way made my spirit sing—was that Arthur was also smiling.
In the night, in our chamber above the sea, Morgan and I loved long and fierce and often. But at length even passion was not enough for us—not close enough, not something—and we simply held each other, found refuge in each other’s arms as we had so many hundreds and thousands of times before. We talked, now and again, but to what purpose? We already knew each thought in the other’s mind and heart and spirit; no need to speak aloud, for all was spoken already. Yet at last, as the sky to the east began to begin to lighten, we did sleep; but when Morgan’s chamberer came to wake us, that we might bathe and dress and break our fast in good time to meet
the King and Queen below, we were already awake, lying there side by side in the creeping dawnlight, staring up at the jewel-stars on the underside of the bed canopy.
Everything seemed now to be as if we moved in dreams; or nightmare more like, there was no choice about any of this, no more than there would be in an execution, say, or a surgery. Will we or nill we, the thing was happening, and we had no choice in it at all. I cannot tell you how I hated that.
So we went down to the Hall of Heroes, where were met for this leavetaking most of those who dwelled in Turusachan; not to mention high officers of state, Councillors, Fian commanders, the heads of the various orders and their high officers and councillors… In the rather subdued throng that all but filled the Hall I saw Elphin Carannoc, who nodded twice but vouchsafed me no other comment, and over against him was an old friend and teacher of ours from our Druid days in Bargodion: Alein Lysaght, who had just been named Archdruid. Named by Arthur himself, moreover, who had exercised an ancient and little-used right of the High King, as Chief of Chiefs (and, technically, High Priest of all high priests), and superseded the Pheryllt whose equally ancient right it was to choose the Archdruid. And sullen angry hornets they were about it, to be sure. But Arthur had wished no repetition of the Ultagh Casnar error, especially whilst we were gone off to war; and so, over many objections both bitter and loud, he had named his own choice.
I thought about it as we waited for Gwen and Arthur to come in. Oh, it was not that Alein was disliked or distrusted by the Pheryllt, nor yet by the rank and file. Nay, the master-Druids were but peeved and cross that Artos had overruled them. Well, they would get over it, no doubt… And then I forgot my musings and misgivings alike, for Arthur and Gweniver had come to the huge beaten copper doors, and pausing a moment as royalty should, they began the long ceremonial stately pacing that would bring them, in about three minutes’ time, to the two thrones that stood below the Throne of Scone.
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