When the fire had burned down, I gathered the live embers to rekindle the hearthfire in Scatha’s hall. Then I collected the ash, dividing it into four equal portions for Gwenllian and her sisters and myself. The Beltain rite observed, we all returned to the caer.
I put the inauspicious fire behind me, and looked instead to the coming gathering. I ordered the various matters in my mind and weighed the words I would use to unite the brotherhood and rouse the bards of Albion to action—remembering only too well that the last gathering had ended in sharp dissension. And then, as the day drew near, Llew and I readied our boat for the voyage to Ynys Bàinail, the Isle of the White Rock, where the gorsedd would take place.
On a fair, wind-swept day, Llew and I bade farewell to our friends and raised sail for Ynys Bàinail and the gathering of bards.
I did not know how many Derwyddi would answer the summons, but this is the way of it: when the Chief Bard of one of the three principal realms of Albion determines to raise a gathering, all bards are bound by vows of brotherhood to attend the gorsedd if no higher claim prevents them. As Chief Bard of Prydain it was my right to summon my brother bards.
A gorsedd brings bards from all clans and realms, for the Derwyddi hold not to ties of blood kinship in the way of other men; neither do we swear fealty to any lord or chieftain, save the one who is chief over us. We who hold the kingship for our people are bound to sovereignty itself; our fealty is to kingship, not the king.
This is how it must be. Kings come and go, but sovereignty remains. Kings are men, and men may fall to vice and corruption, but sovereignty is pure and undefiled at its source. Albion’s bards are charged with maintaining the Sovereignty of Albion in its purity. We, the keepers of kingship, are ever vigilant for those who would do violence to that which we have vowed to uphold through all things.
I held our sturdy boat close to the wind so that the prow divided the waves, driving the silver fish before us. I was eager to reach Ynys Bàinail to see who arrived first, and also to tend Ollathir’s grave. I had buried him in haste, and wanted to honor him properly now.
“What are you going to tell them?” Llew asked, when he at last turned his eyes from the misty mound of Ynys Sci.
“I will tell them that Prince Meldron has raped the kingship of Prydain,” I answered simply.
“What do you expect them to do?”
“We will hold council and see what may be done,” I answered. “That is why I have issued the call.”
Llew nodded, his eyes on the sea’s far horizon. “How many will come?”
“I cannot say. I believe the bards of Caledon and Llogres remain.”
“Two thirties and two?”
“How do you reckon that number?”
“You told me there were three thirties and three in all Albion,” Llew replied. “That makes thirty and one for each of the three realms. Since no bards remain in Prydain—save you alone—that leaves two thirties and two.” He smiled. “Well? Have I guessed correctly?”
“Yes, if all answer the summons. Some might be prevented.”
“What would prevent them?”
“The need to protect the kingship or the people,” I replied. “It is for each bard to determine where and when his skills are required by his people and his king.”
“I see.” Llew sat down with his back to the mast and his arms folded on his knees. “What about the Phantarch—will you tell them about the Phantarch’s death?”
“Of course. It is a matter of highest concern,” I said, thinking that even I did not fully comprehend it all. “The brotherhood will decide what to do to restore the Song of Albion.”
The Song of Albion has been sung from the beginning of this worlds-realm; from the beginning there has always been a Phantarch to sing it. Hidden in his chamber of stone under high mountains, the Chief Bard of Albion sang the Song; through him the Song of Albion was given life; upholding and sustaining all that existed.
The Phantarch was dead, but the Song remained. For the Chief Bard of Albion had protected it in death, even as he had upheld it in life. By means of strong enchantment the Phantarch had bound the Song of Albion to the very stones that had crushed him and formed his grave mound. This he had done so that the Song would not pass out of this worlds-realm and Albion fall to utter darkness and chaos. These were the same Singing Stones which Meldron now held—and by which he thought to justify his unlawful claim on the sovereignty of Prydain.
“Will they try to recover the Song from Meldron?” Llew inquired. Our time on Scatha’s Isle had done much to restore his spirits. The gaze from his clear gray eyes as he looked out upon the sea swell was steady and untroubled.
“I do not know,” I told him. “This has never happened before.”
We talked on other things then and ate some of the bread from our provisions. Our stout boat parted the waves, and the gulls hovered above the billowing sail. If the wind held good, three days’ sailing would bring us to our destination: Ynys Oer, larger companion to Ynys Bàinail.
We sighted the big island early on the morning of the third day. As the wind remained favorable, we proceeded to sail around the broad northern headland and came at Ynys Bàinail from the west. This made the sea journey a little longer, but saved us a rough walk across the promontory.
As we rounded the headland, the Isle of the White Rock came into view, shining like a beacon on the sun. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I could almost make out the pillar stone on the mound in the center of the island. We sailed past the isle and entered the strait separating the White Rock from its larger island neighbor. Those who go to Ynys Bàinail often camp on the western shore of Ynys Oer and then cross the strait to the sacred isle by curragh, the smaller leather-hulled boats the Derwyddi keep especially for the purpose.
There is a sandy cove among the rocks on the western shore of Ynys Oer and a stone hut where provisions may be stored, and where a few useful tools are kept for those who visit the sacred isle. The hut stands at the head of a grassy glen where horses can be grazed; through the glen flows a clear-running stream, where horses can be watered. Horses are not allowed on the White Rock, nor weapons of any kind, nor any unworthy person; for Ynys Bàinail, Isle of the White Rock, is the sacred center of Albion.
We made landfall on the shore of the rock-sheltered cove and anchored the boat. Llew gathered firewood and fetched water. He moved our provisions from the boat to the hut, and, having done all to make ready, he walked the sea strand to occupy himself.
Meanwhile, I took a curragh and went alone to the White Rock to visit Ollathir’s grave. I tidied the small mound and added to its heap of smooth black-and-white stones. Then I sat beside the grave mound until the sun touched the far sea rim in the west, whereupon I rose and made my way back across the channel to wait for the bards to arrive.
8
THE LAST GORSEDD
The first bards arrived the next morning; seventeen, and all from Llogres. They had assembled on the eastern side of the island, and having seen our ship the previous day, crossed the headland to join us. At dusk eleven bards arrived from Caledon in two boats. And three boats from Llogres appeared just after dawn the next day bearing fourteen, along with their attendant Mabinogi. Twelve from Caledon arrived on horseback at midday, and the remaining eight followed at dusk.
Thus, all the bards of Albion were in attendance. They had received my summons and had come, eager to discuss the signs and portents which they had witnessed since the last gathering.
Most of the brotherhood were known to me, and I greeted them by name. My heart lightened to see them again, for since Ollathir’s death I had made my way alone. For their part, the Derwyddi were concerned to see that Ollathir was not with me. Indeed, it was Ollathir they were expecting; they did not know he was dead. But though they saw I now held the rowan staff of Prydain, they said nothing, biding their time until I should declare the reason for the gathering.
The gorsedd is conducted with all probity; strict laws of rank and order ar
e observed. It is a most ancient observance and one which is held in highest respect. Wars have been halted in midbattle to accommodate a bardic gathering! It is not lightly regarded.
Gorsedd is itself a most ancient word. It can be used to designate the chair or throne of a king, for the earliest kings received their sovereignty atop the holy mounds or in sacred groves. The word for throne thus indicates a mound. And, since bards are often buried in these holy mounds, gorsedd also means “grave.” The sacred mound on Ynys Bàinail was Ollathir’s grave; even if he had not died on the mound itself, it is likely he would have been buried there.
The Chief Bard of Caledon was a tall man with a long dark mustache and braided beard. His name was Bryno Hir and, now that Ollathir was gone, Bryno the Tall was the most eminent bard in the Island of the Mighty. Ollathir respected Bryno; he had sought his counsel on many occasions and welcomed his company always.
When Bryno’s ship arrived, I made certain to meet him the moment he disembarked. He raised his hands in greeting, “Hail, Tegid ap Talaryant! May your song endure!” Even as he greeted me, his eyes slid past me, searching for Ollathir. He meant no slight; it was an instinctive action.
“Hail, Bryno!” I touched the back of my hand to my forehead out of respect, even though we now shared the same rank. Still, when the time came to choose a new Phantarch, I recognized that it would likely be Bryno Hir. “I trust you journeyed well.”
He looked at me, his keen dark eyes searching. “What has happened?” he asked softly.
I walked him a little apart from those who were with him. “Ollathir is dead,” I told him simply. Before he could ask how this had come to pass, I added, “And all the rest of Prydain’s bards with him. I alone have survived.”
Bryno seemed to shrink into himself; the color drained from his face. “How?” he asked in a shattered voice.
I explained briefly, and Bryno listened, shaking his head gravely all the while. When I finished, he turned his eyes to the White Rock. “Yet the sacred center was not defiled.”
“Llew,” I replied, “the man with me, prevented it. He has received Ollathir’s awen, and I have made him king of Prydain.”
Bryno was silent for a long moment searching the meaning of all that I had told him. Wise and farseeing, the Chief Bard of Caledon rightly understood the peril facing us. “The Day of Strife,” he said at last. Then he asked, “What of the Phantarch? Dead?”
“Yes.”
He did not ask how this had come about, nor how I knew it to be true. “And the Song of Albion?”
“It was saved,” I answered, and told him about Llew’s Hero Feat with the Singing Stones.
“Where are the stones now?”
“Prince Meldron has them,” I answered. “But with help, I am certain they can be recovered.”
Despite this assurance, Bryno passed a hand before his eyes. He remained some moments in silent mourning for the age he saw passing away before our very eyes. “The Day of Strife,” he repeated slowly, heavily, as if the words were weighted with the grief of all the world.
After a moment, he turned to me. “Ollathir tried to tell us, but we would not hear him.” He was recalling the last gathering of bards which had refused Ollathir’s warning and instead had fallen into discord and dissension.
“Not even Ollathir knew what would happen,” I offered. “If he had known, he would never have—”
The bard lifted his hand and gripped my shoulder. “No,” he said gently. “We own the guilt. So be it.” He glanced at the scattered knots of bards assembled on the strand and drew a deep breath. “There is treachery among us.”
“The traitor has answered for his crimes,” I replied. “He chose treachery, and treachery claimed him.” I then told him about Ruadh, Prince Meldron’s bard, and how Llew and I had found his body at the bottom of the dry well shaft in Findargad.
Bryno accepted this and set his face to the task ahead. “You were right to raise the gorsedd,” Bryno said. “There is much to be done this day and in the days to come.”
Leaving the Mabinogi to tend camp, we launched the curraghs and plied the narrow strip of water separating Ynys Bàinail. Time and again, the small boats crossed the blue-green water until all stood on the white strand. We then made our way up the long, narrow path to the top of the great White Rock, passing through the hole in the rock which leads to the wide plain above. In the center of this plain stands the holy mound, rising like a spike, the great pillar stone. The bards of Albion made their way to the foot of the mound. When all were assembled, we passed three times in a sunwise circle around the base of the mound, and then mounted the steep sides.
The top of the mound is flat, and the perimeter marked with white stones; these form a wheel and the pillar stone the axle. The various orders of bards: Filidh, Brehon, Gwyddon, and Derwydd—some of them holding branches of white hazel or rowan, or staffs of oak, beech, or yew—all gathered in ranks around the pillar stone within the sacred circle.
Thus did the gathering of bards begin. Since Llew now possessed the Chief Bard’s awen, he was allowed to join us atop the mound, though in any other circumstances that would not have been allowed. With Bryno the Tall at my right hand and Llew at my left, I stood before the blue-painted pillar stone and delivered my terrible pronouncements to the assembled Derwyddi: I told of the deaths of Ollathir and the Phantarch, the ruin of Prydain and the slaughter of Prydain’s bards by Lord Nudd, and the dawning of the Day of Strife.
At my words, the brotherhood trembled. When I finished, they rent their garments and sank to their knees, pounding the earth with their fists. They filled the air with wailing and loud lamentation, throwing the white dust of the mound over their heads, rubbing it into their hair and beards. They shrieked their outrage to the sun, and called upon the elements to witness their sore distress. Many uttered vows in the dark tongue, binding their spirits to the cause of justice for their murdered brothers.
Llew watched all, grimly, without a word, his arms crossed over his chest. He alone remained unmoved.
When the outcry had exhausted itself, I stood once more before the brotherhood and bade them stand on their feet and hear the prophecy of the champion which the Banfáith had given to us. “Bards of Albion, Wise Men, cease your lamentation! Rise up and hear the prophetic word which I shall speak.”
They rose and silenced themselves to hear what I would say. I knew well the words. I had hoarded them in my heart. I had but to open my mouth and speak them out. Yet, even as they stood watching me, I could not. Something stayed me. I stood with gaping mouth and stared at my brothers, and it came into my mind that I looked upon corpses: gray-faced in filthy cloaks, their hair wild, their eye pits hollow.
When the Light of the Derwyddi is cut off, and the blood of bards demands justice . . .
The words of the Banfáith’s prophecy—she had spoken this time. The Light of the Derwyddi was the Phantarch and the blood of my kinsmen, the bards of Prydain, demanded justice. The gathering had cried out for justice. I wondered at this. Was this how the prophecy would be fulfilled?
As if in answer to my ill-posed question, there came a shout—distant, yet distinct—a cry of challenge. I turned to Llew. He stood motionless, listening. The cry came again: a word, a single shouted word. I heard it and recognized it . . . my name.
“T-e-e-g-i-i-i-d-d!” came the shout for a third time.
Who dared invade the sanctity of the holy isle?
The Derwyddi surged toward the sound. Those closest to the outer rim of the wheel dashed to the edge of the mound to look upon the plain below. Their reaction was instantaneous and fatal.
Seeing the abomination in the sacred place, some bards threw themselves over the edge of the mound, racing down the slopes with shouts of rage. Others fell back, calling to those behind. In the space of one heartbeat, all was confusion. The outcry was deafening. I could not make out what was happening.
“Follow me, Tegid!” It was Llew, pushing through the churning throng.
Llew and I reached the rim of the mound and looked down. Warriors, a band a hundred strong, advanced across the plain below, their weapons and shields glinting in the sun as they came. This is what the Derwyddi had seen—and what had sent them into a frenzy of rage.
“Meldron!” Llew said; the word was a curse between his teeth.
The usurper was there, standing in the midst of his Wolf Pack, ordering the attack upon the defenseless bards. Beside Meldron stood Siawn Hy, spear in hand, shield slung over his shoulder.
Helpless, I watched as my brothers hurled themselves into the spears and swords of the waiting warriors. “Stop them!” shouted Llew.
But there was no stopping them. Heedless, they rushed to their deaths, defending the sacred ground with their bodies. The cries of the dying assaulted the air.
The bards hastened to the plain, cloaks and mantles streaming, flying to their deaths. Meldron’s Wolf Pack struck and struck again. Spears thrusting, swords flashing out from under uplifted shields. The warriors simply stepped over the twitching bodies and moved on.
“Tegid, do something!” cried Llew. “Stop them!”
Bryno Hir appeared beside me. He held his rowan staff in both hands, raised above his head, his face dark with anger, his lips tight over his teeth. He opened his mouth, and the air shook to the sound of the Taran Tafod, the dark tongue. “Cwmwl dyfod! Gwynt dyrnod!”
At his word, wind gusted across the plain and swirled the base of the mound. Vaporous clouds appeared over the pillar stone, boiling out of the air and spreading across the sky.
“Dynrod! Dyfod! Tymestl rhuo!” Bryno Hir called, swinging his long staff through the air. The clouds thickened, darkening the plain below. Wind whipped and flattened the long grass. “Cwmwl dyfod! Gwynt dyrnod! Tymestl rhuo!”
The Silver Hand Page 8
