The Silver Hand

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  We settled at the glowing hearth, and I began my doleful recitation of all that had happened since Llew and I had last sat in that happy hall. I told them about the harrowing of Prydain by Lord Nudd and his demon host of Coranyid—of Sycharth’s destruction, and that of all the settlements large and small throughout the land. I told them of our desperate flight to Findargad, and the long siege brought to an end by Llew’s discovery of the Singing Stones by which the dying Phantarch had contrived to save the Song of Albion.

  Lastly, I told them of Llew’s Hero Feat on the wall at Findargad, and Prince Meldron’s treachery which ended in the Great King’s death; I recounted Meldryn Mawr’s funeral and entombment, and how, in full sight of everyone, Llew had emerged from the Hero Mound. I told them how I had bestowed the kingship upon Llew, and how in retaliation Meldron, wicked seed, had stolen it away and imprisoned us. I described our escape from the hostage pit, and our flight to Ynys Sci.

  In short, I told them everything that had happened in the land since we had last sojourned on the island. I knew we would have need of Scatha’s considerable aid in the days to come, so I held nothing back. I had already begun to conceive a plan by which we could regain the throne of Prydain.

  For their part, my listeners heard the sorry tale in silence, bread and cups untouched at their hands. When I finished, night had deepened and the hall was dark. We sat in a circle around the central hearth, the fire dwindled small. The ticking of the embers grew loud in the silence of the hall. My tale had stunned and astonished. Boru stared into the shimmering coals, his face deep-shadowed and drawn. Scatha and Govan frowned, their eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Gwenllian, erect, hands before her, fingertips together, remained inscrutable behind closed eyes. Goewyn wore a look of mingled pity and pride, and I wondered what she had heard in my words, to awaken such a response.

  Finally, Scatha raised her eyes, drew breath, and said, “I am sorry for Meldryn Mawr’s death, and saddened by the shameful actions of his grasping son. Whatever I can do to help you, be assured—it will be done.”

  Scatha had offered me outright that which I had hoped by persuasion to obtain. I accepted gladly. “I thank you,” I replied. “With your help we will make good Llew’s claim and establish his rightful reign.”

  But Gwenllian raised a cautioning hand, “You should know this: my mother is bound by a strong geas never to support one king over another in battle, or to raise sword against any who have delivered kinsmen to her tutelage, unless any first raise hand against her.” She paused, allowing me to take in the full import of her unhappy words.

  I understood the wisdom of this prohibition, even as I lamented its unfortunate effect. For Scatha’s taboo meant that we could not count on her considerable skill and support in battle.

  “It is true,” Scatha replied. “There are some means I am not free to pursue.”

  “Pen-y-Cat,” said Llew, “though your blade alone is worth a hundred, it is enough that you have received us and given us shelter. You need have no fear for your geas. We will find another way to overcome Meldron.”

  “Well, I am bound by no such vow,” Boru said, leaping to his feet. “I will gladly take arms against Meldron and any who follow him. I support you, brother. Whatever I have is yours to command.”

  “Thank you,” Llew told him. “I accept. No doubt I will have need of your strong arm.”

  “Come,” said Scatha, rising, “we will speak no more of this now. You are friends too long absent from this hearth. Tonight we will eat and drink together and rejoice in your safe return.” She called for the fire to be built up again, and for food and drink to be served anew. Talk turned to happier things, and we lingered no longer on Meldron and his low treachery.

  Night was far gone when we departed to our sleeping places. Quitting the hall, we followed Boru across the moonlit yard to the warriors’ house. Llew stopped abruptly and looked up at the star-spattered sky.

  “What is it? What do you see?” I asked.

  He did not answer at once. “I had forgotten how bright they are here,” he murmured at length. “And how close.”

  7

  BLACK BELTAIN

  Like noisy gulls returning to their summer nests, the young warriors began flocking to Scatha’s school. On the wings of the wind they came—though none from desolate Prydain. This lack was more than made up by others from Llogres and Caledon.

  Llew and I stood on the cliff as the first boats discharged their eager passengers. Boys, some as young as eight summers, trooped ashore, their heads full of the glory they would win with skills they had yet to master.

  “Scatha’s fields will be full this year,” I observed. “Another fine harvest.”

  “Hm?” Llew said absently. He was watching a man secure a boat with no other help but the rope wrapped around his broad shoulders. The man leaned into his task, back heaving, strong legs churning as he dragged the boat onto the shingle.

  “There is a stout battle chief,” I said and, catching Llew’s rapt attention, asked, “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I think I do,” he answered and at once began scrambling down the cliff track to the shingle below.

  I followed and heard him shout: “Cynan!”

  The young man glanced around and a wide grin spread across his face. Wild red curls, bright as polished copper, ruffled like feathers in the sea breeze; eyes cool and crystal blue as chips of ice cheerfully scanned the shore to see who had called him. A thick silver torc gleamed at his throat.

  “Here, Cynan!” called Llew, splashing into the water.

  “Greetings, friend,” he said as Llew came to stand before him. “Cynan ap Cynfarch I am.” He continued to smile, but no recognition came into his eyes.

  “Cynan, it’s me: Llyd!”

  The young battle chief paused, keen blue eyes squinting in friendly scrutiny. “No—is it . . . Llyd?”

  “You remember!”

  “Llyd ap Dicter!” Cynan cried. “Is it you, man?”

  A strange name: Anger, Son of Fury. What did it mean?

  Llew laughed and seized him by the arms. They embraced as kinsmen, talked, and laughed, oblivious to the waves surging around them. Taking the rope, the two friends beached the boat and then strode onto the shingle where I stood.

  “Tegid,” Llew said, “this is Cynan Machae. He is my sword-brother, and it is to him that I owe all I know of humility.”

  “Humiliation, you mean.” Cynan laughed, draping an arm across Llew’s shoulders. “Ach, but you were a sorry opponent!”

  “Cynan’s father is King Cynfarch of Caledon,” Llew explained. “His is the largest clan in the south.”

  “If you are including sheep as well,” Cynan added happily. “Good greetings to you. Any man who calls Llyd friend is a friend to me.”

  “Greetings, Cynan Machae,” I said. “May your spear fly true as your word.”

  Llew thrust out a hand to me. “This is Tegid Tathal, Penderwydd of Prydain,” he explained to Cynan. “He allows me to travel in his company.”

  “You serve a Chief Bard?” Cynan raised his scant red eyebrows. “You have risen in this world since I last saw you, Llyd.”

  “Indeed,” I answered, “though he will not say it himself. He is Llyd no longer. He is become Llew, and he is the king I serve.”

  The amazement in Cynan’s blue eyes was genuine, as was his pleasure. “Clanna na cù !” he hooted. “The stump of a spearhandler I remember was never yet a chieftain, much less a king.” He pressed a finger to the hollow of Llew’s throat. “Where is your golden torc, man?”

  “Come to the hall and we will raise cups together,” said Llew.

  “A man of my own heart,” Cynan replied. “Lead the way.”

  They started off across the beach to the hill track, and Llew turned back. “Will you come, Tegid?”

  “I will join you in a while. The day is good; I want to walk and think. Save me a jar.”

  I watched the two of them mount the steep track leading to the caer
. Then I turned and began walking west over the strand. The sea glimmered and gleamed like hammered silver, and the sky shone burnished blue. The salt air was crisp and fresh; a pale sun slowly warmed the land and water. The small round rocks beneath my feet sounded hollow as I trod over them, and the gulls circling far above shrieked their shrill cry.

  Yes, a good day to walk and think—and I had much to think on. My foremost concern was the raising of a war band to carry our claim against Meldron and regain the kingship. The Llwyddi war band, though much diminished, still numbered eighty. And the prince’s Wolf Pack remained intact—an elite force made up of twenty of Prydain’s best warriors.

  We would have to do more than merely match Meldron man-for-man. We must overwhelm him. I had no wish to make war on members of my own clan, but a large enough force might mean less bloodshed in the end. Yet, to gather a war band of any size . . . easier to coax oysters from the sea, or beckon birds from the sky. Nevertheless, that was the task set before us.

  I scrambled over the sea-lashed rocks and rounded the headland. The wind hit me full and fresh. I pulled the air deep into my lungs and tramped over smooth wet sand the sea had just abandoned.

  The difficulties of raising a war band occupied my mind for a time, but my thoughts drifted. Unaccountably, I began thinking about the night on the sacred mound at Ynys Bàinail when out of the lowering storm wrack the Cythrawl, ancient evil, was loosed upon the land. I reached back into the shadows of my memory to that accursed night when Ollathir, Chief Bard of Albion, died.

  I heard again the voice of Ollathir, lifted in the secret tongue of the Derwyddi, crying out in desperate entreaty. The sacred mound trembled with the sound. I swooned. The last thing I saw was the Chief Bard standing alone with his back to the pillar stone of Prydain, his staff of power above his head, straining to hold the writhing Cythrawl at bay.

  Before he died, Ollathir breathed his awen into Llew. I did not see this happen, but I do not doubt that it occurred exactly as Llew described it to me: a dying man’s kiss.

  Llew possessed the Chief Bard’s awen, but he was not a bard. The awen is the bard’s guiding vision, it is the illuminating spirit of his craft, it is the essence of knowledge made manifest in power. In a bard like Ollathir the awen was a most formidable tool and weapon. And this Llew possessed but, as he was not bard, he could not call it forth at will.

  This weapon was not lost to him completely, however. I had seen it flash forth from him in the Heart of the Heart, the hidden chamber of the Phantarch, deep under Findargad’s rock. There, quickened by the power of the Song of Albion, the awen had transfigured him: Llyd, the reluctant warrior, had become Llew, the champion.

  The Chief Bard’s awen was alive in Llew, but it remained buried deep within. It would be an invaluable aid to us if I could find a way to allow him to invoke it. But the training of a bard is difficult and long. Even so, the disciplined harmony of mind and heart that unites in the song spirit is not granted to all who enter the narrow gate of the Derwyddi, and not every bard can wield the awen as he will.

  It felt good to walk so—the wind fresh on my face, the sun warm, and the sea spreading fair beside me. A plan began to take shape in my mind. I was the last bard of my people; all the rest were gone. But judging from what I had seen of Llogres and on Sci, Lord Nudd’s destruction seemed to have been confined to Prydain alone. It seemed likely that among the tribes of Caledon and Llogres the bards did not even know what had happened.

  It came to me that I might send to them through the warrior-Mabinogi who flocked to Scatha’s isle. Yes, I would gather the learned brotherhood and tell them all that had taken place. I would apprise them of Meldron’s offense against sovereignty and ask their aid in helping us restore the kingship of Prydain.

  In the next days, I talked to the boys and young men arriving on the island and discovered which kings in Caledon and Llogres maintained bards. From the warrior-Mabinogi I learned the names of my brothers and where they could be found. And then I waited, giving myself to the tasks I found in Scatha’s service.

  Through days as sweet and rich as golden mead, the Wheel of Heaven revolved, turning through its measured course: through planting time and blossom time—when the hills glow with tiny golden flowers, and even the deep-shadowed glens deck themselves in red and purple—the seasons worked their slow enchantment. I watched the signs, marking each day’s passing and observing the sacred celebrations and festivals of our people.

  I observed also the growing bond between Goewyn and Llew.

  They were often together: riding in the fresh dawn light, walking the hills at sunset or the silvered strand by moonlight. I saw how Goewyn watched him, delighting in his presence. It was not dawn’s fresh light that rose in her dark eyes, but something brighter still and just as clear and strong.

  Llew held himself enthralled by her every grace—by her bright-braided tresses no less than by her laugh, by the curve of her lips no less than by the cool touch of her slender fingers. Llew was not lonely with Goewyn in sight.

  Rhylla, season of seedfall and song, came in its time, bringing the short, amber-tinted days and frost-mingled nights. The Season of Snows followed, with cold, wet, gusty days. But before the ice-laden gales conspired to end sea travel, the young of Scatha’s school departed to their separate realms and the hearths of their clans.

  Before the ships departed, I spoke to those returning to the mainland and extracted solemn vows to deliver my message to the bards: at the request of the Chief Bard of Prydain, a gorsedd on Ynys Bàinail one moon after Beltain.

  I stood on the cliff, the wind lashing my cloak against my legs, and watched the ships setting forth on their homeward journeys. Word of the gathering went with my pledged messengers; I had no fear that it would fail. When the last ship sailed from the bay, I hastened to the hall, warming myself with the knowledge that my plan, so long anticipated, was finally proceeding.

  Fortunate indeed are those who enjoy the shelter of Scatha’s hall when the cruel wind howls. There is feasting on savory meat and sweet bread and honey mead; there is singing and the matchless music of the harp and the tales of wonder; there is sporting at games and hunting and riding in the snow, returning red-cheeked to sip hot ale from steaming cups; there is warmth in excellent company while the gale claws with icy fingers at the roof thatch, and the rooftree groans.

  One by one, the days passed and the year’s wheel turned. The Season of Ice and Darkness waned; fury spent, winter gathered its flagging forces and retreated.

  The days lengthened and the wind warmed. The moon moved through its phases until one morning, as a new moon rose in the time-between-times, we observed the rite which marks the year reborn: the kindling of the Beltain fire.

  On that day, all other fires are extinguished so that the Beltain flame, pure and perfect, may be the mother of all flames throughout the year to come. In the chieftain’s house this fire burns without cease, and anyone needing fire is given live embers from the Beltain bed so that each house receives warmth and light from the same pure flame.

  Accordingly, in the dark of the moon, Gwenllian and I gathered the Nawglan, the nine woods whose unique qualities produce such wonderful benefit. We obtained a goodly quantity, which I bundled with strips of rawhide. On the highest hill of Ynys Sci, we cut a wide and shallow trench in the turf—a circle large enough to enclose the entire company of Scatha’s house. In the center of the circle, we placed the bundled wood on a newborn lamb’s white fleece.

  Before dawn the company assembled on the hilltop: Gwenllian, Govan, Goewyn, Llew, Scatha, Boru, the servants, and the few warriors who wintered with us. And then, in the time-between-times we kindled the flame. Grasping the greenwood bow, Gwenllian drew the gut line, spinning the length of rounded yew in the deep-cut notch of an oaken bole. At the first glow from the wood, I applied the dried plant called tán coeth, which causes the infant flame to burst bright and blush crimson—as if drawing the life from the very air.

  I have done this
countless times. But this time, as I touched the tán coeth to the wood, the spark glimmered feebly and died in a wisp of smoke. Gwenllian saw the flame fail and drew her breath in sharply; the bow fell from her fingers and her face went white. My heart lurched in my chest.

  I glanced to the east, toward the rising sun, even as my hands fumbled to retrieve the bow and yew. The first rays of the sun touched the hilltop and there was no fire to greet the new day. The Beltain fire failed. The year dawned black.

  Quickly, quickly, I replaced the bow and spun the yew stick as hard and fast as my shaking fingers would permit—as if speed alone could recover the loss. Black Beltain! How could it have happened? I held my breath, willing the flame to appear.

  A moment later, a tiny plume of silver smoke curled from the oak bole. I blew gently on the spark and coaxed it to a flame. In the space of two heartbeats the fire leapt quick and high. If any of the others noticed anything amiss, they did not show it; I think only Gwenllian and I knew. So great was my desire to see the new year begun aright, I turned my face away from the ill-omened flame and instead stood to greet the year renewed.

  We baked the Beltain bread then, forming the small loaves of grain and honey and setting them to cook on the flat stones at the fire’s edge, while I roasted the flesh of fish, fowl, and kine on spits over the fire. Goewyn shared out apples and hazelnuts kept through Sollen’s darkness, and Govan poured beer and sweet, yellow mead into bowls. The fire loaves are all that is strictly required, but other items are added as the clan desires in order to ensure plenty through all the year.

  Thus, in the new light of the year reborn, we ate and drank and sang. Gwenllian, her harp against her shoulder, sent the sparkling melody skyward. She lifted her voice and offered a precious gift of music to the day. But though I sang, and heard the song rising up like the smoke from the fire before us, my heart was not in it. Dread had taken root in my soul, and I could not sing true.