by J. M. Hofer
He spied Emrys’ banners flying from a hillfort just beyond the outskirts of the city, but the idea of dealing with the crowds, smells and chaos of a city after so many days of solitude made him recoil. He turned off the main road to find another way to his destination. “Come on, girl,” he said to his mare, patting her on the side. He reached the high walls of the hillfort within the hour.
“State your name,” a guard demanded, pushing a spear unnecessarily close to his face.
“Taliesin, son of Lord Elffin, of Maes Gwythno.”
“What business have you here?”
Taliesin felt offended. He remembered the parchment he had been given and produced it for the guard, feeling an urge to whip him across the cheek with it.
“Wait here,” the guard quipped.
Taliesin had not waited long before Uthyr came riding out to receive him. “I see Myrthin managed to deliver my message. He can be trusted for some things, at least. It’s good to have you here, lad.” He slapped him on the back and grinned. “What can I get you? Food, drink? A woman?”
Taliesin laughed. He enjoyed Uthyr’s rough, boisterous energy. It felt exhilarating, like standing in a strong river. “I’m honored I can be of service to you and Commander Emrys.”
Uthyr turned his horse around. “Come, I want to show you something.” Taliesin rode with him across the hillfort to the south-facing wall. “Get off that horse and stretch your legs.” Uthyr dismounted and climbed some crude stairs to the top of the wall, beckoning Taliesin to follow.
Taliesin reached the top and joined him. The view took his breath away. In the waning afternoon light, the Usk river looked like liquid gold flowing into the calm Severn Sea, which stretched out toward the western horizon. All the trees had turned, their leaves aflame in red and gold. The old Roman walls around the city had been rebuilt, and work had started on a massive church. All around were signs of order and industry. “I’m glad to be living by the sea again,” Uthyr remarked. “Something about it soothes me, yet also inspires me to action. Like a good woman.”
Taliesin nodded, feeling a pang of nostalgia. “I know what you mean.”
Uthyr’s sentimental smile then twisted into a harsh frown. “We’ll not let the bloody Saxons have this land. I swear, Taliesin, you’ll sing of our victory until you’re so old your porridge is dripping from your mouth. There’s magic in this soil, and it’s ours, dammit.” He turned and headed back down the stairs. “Come. I’ve someplace to show you.”
Uthyr took Taliesin to the harbor, and then south by boat across a narrow strip of sea. The closer they rowed to the other side, the softer and more limpid the light became, as if the sun were shining through shifting veils of gold and amber silk.
From there, they sailed inland, along calm and misty waterways. Willows leaned over them like protective mothers as they passed by, whispering lullabies in the cold, still air. Taliesin began to feel as if he were dreaming. “This place feels familiar to me.”
The mist shifted, revealing a lofty hill on the horizon. Uthyr pointed to it and glanced over at Taliesin. “That’s the reason I summoned you. The folk around here say the Fae roam that tor and the waters and marshlands that surround it. I want to know the truth of it, but I’m just a warrior, not a druid, like you.”
Taliesin felt spellbound, unable to look away from the enormous hill. It looked strangely familiar to him. “Does it have a name?”
Uthyr nodded. “Many. Some call it Ynys Wydryn, some Affalon.”
Taliesin’s stomach leapt at the name. Ynys Wydryn, the Isle of Glass. He had heard many songs inspired by its beauty and mystery. He felt a thrill surge through his heart. “I’ve heard of it.”
“I thought you might have.”
Taliesin nodded. “Yes. The songs say, like many islands, it hovers on the threshold of the Otherworld, forever drifting in and out. This is why so many people disappear and are never heard from again.”
Uthyr raised his brows. He looked fascinated by the idea, his eyes lingering on the high tor with a faraway look. “Well, after seeing what lay inside the mountains to the north, I believe you. In any case, all the folk who live in the surrounding farms and villages have a story about someone in their family who disappeared while wandering upon the isle. If I am to rule this land, I must know as much about it as I can.”
Taliesin knew the reason Uthyr wanted to understand its power—for the same reason all men wanted to understand any power—to wield it against their enemies. But I don’t care. All that matters is I’m here.
“See what you can learn about it for me. To defeat the Saxons, we need to know everything we can about any advantage or power we possess.”
“If that’s what you wish.”
“It is.”
Taliesin nodded. “Then drop me on its shore. There’s a new moon in a few days. Come back for me when it’s full, and I’ll tell you what I’ve discovered.”
Uthyr smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”
***
The moment Taliesin stepped foot on Ynys Wydryn, he knew he had been there before. His heart raced with anticipation as he ran up the hillside and, as he had expected to, found a large grove of apple trees.
Yet, no sublime fragrance greeted him. No silver boughs stretched out toward him, heavy with divine fruit. He wandered over to one of the trees, reached up and plucked an apple. He knew before he bit into it that it would taste like disappointment. With a heavy heart, he wandered to where he had remembered a stream flowing. It was there, running along the same path from the same pond, yet its song was duller than he remembered, and its water not as sweet.
Only the Willow seemed alive with same magic. Filled with longing and melancholy, he leaned against her like a small child on his mother’s breast. Let me in, Willow. Please, let me in. I must see her again.
He sat within the Willow’s golden shelter until the dense world and the Otherworld began to overlap. The veil thinned as he did, and though he was weak with hunger, he did not leave.
***
It was days before Taliesin heard the voice he longed to hear.
“You came back to me.”
Taliesin opened his eyes. She was there, in front of him. His heart raced as he stood up and reached out to touch her, frightened she might disappear. But she did not. In a rush of relief, he pulled her against his chest, breathing in the smell of her hair. “You’re real.”
In that moment, he knew why he had given up the grove. He knew why his heart beat and his voice sang. Every reason had the same name: Nimue.
He squeezed her closer to him. “At last, you’re here.”
“I have always been here.” Nimue pulled away and looked into his eyes. “And here, I will always be.” She took him by the hand and led him out of the Willow’s embrace and into the night. The fragrance had returned.
***
Uthyr returned to Ynys Wydryn when the moon was full, but Taliesin was not there. Concerned for his friend’s welfare, he questioned the folk in the nearby villages, but none had seen or heard of a young bard named Taliesin. Some believed he might have drowned. Some were convinced he had strayed into the Otherworld and would never return, like the many others who had disappeared over the years. Everyone Uthyr questioned had a theory about what might have happened to him, but no one could tell him how he might be found or brought back.
Uthyr refused to give up hope. Taliesin said he would return with the full moon, and he had faith that he would. He waited for the moon to wane and wax again, and returned when it grew full again. A light snow had fallen, and Uthyr grew concerned. Where is he? He had nothing but a cloak and his harp! He can’t spend the winter here. He sat down upon the shore of Ynys Wydryn in defeat. I’ll wait for him through the night.
He built a fire and settled in, pulling his furs close against the cold. He fell into a peaceful trance watching the silver moonlight dance on the water. His thoughts drifted to his recent visit to Din Tagell, where he had met with Gorlois regarding the defense of Dumnonia. D
in Tagell was truly a man’s castle—it sat perched at the edge of the sea, far out on a rocky peninsula. To live there would be like living upon a great ship built of stone, surrounded by the power and magic of the sea. Then, a vision of Igerna surfaced in his mind, causing him to moan aloud with agony. She could have been mine—the most beautiful pearl in all of Dumnonia. Why did I not ask for her hand when I had the chance? He had seen her but a few times during his visit and knew it was surely by design—Gorlois was no fool.
What’s that? Uthyr’s heart leapt at the faint sound of someone singing. Taliesin? He sat up, straining to determine which direction the voice had come from. He turned and looked up at the giant tor looming behind him, its apple trees swaying in the breeze. He got to his feet and found a footpath that appeared to lead to the top, but it spiraled around the tor far more times than he knew it should. He had simply been walking in circles, getting no closer. Frustrated, he cried out, “Damn you, spirits! Give him back!”
He abandoned the path and hiked straight up the side of the tor, clambering between trees. His boots slid in the mud as he scrambled along, determined to reach the top. It was hours before he noticed the ground had leveled out. Exhausted, he stood up, the sound of his heavy breathing and heartbeat filling his ears. I’ve bloody made it. He stood in a grove of apple trees, but they were unlike any apple trees he had ever seen. Their leaves and fruit were silver, nearly glowing in the moonlight. He reached his hand up to pluck one from a low-hanging bough. That was when their scent overcame him—a scent so divine, he felt an uncontrollable urge to laugh and weep. His hand floated down to his heart, and he slumped against the tree’s trunk with the joy of it.
Since his return from Valhalla, Uthyr had often suffered from a feeling of emptiness so vast, deep and dark, it rendered him unable to muster enthusiasm for anything but combat. He had glimpsed heaven only to fall back to earth, where everything he once found beautiful or divine seemed like ashes in comparison. This was the black source of his bloodlust. It was the reason he longed for the battlefield, for only in battle could he die with honor and be borne away by the Valkyries back to Folkvangr or Valhalla. But now, the world had come alive again. Gods, where am I?
“Affalon,” a voice said behind him.
Uthyr whirled around to see a young woman standing behind him, cradling an apple in her hands. She held it out. “Eat. You’re hungry.”
Though he wanted nothing more than to take it and sink his teeth into it, he hesitated. “Who are you, Lady?”
She ignored his question. “You seek Taliesin.”
“I do.” Uthyr felt unnerved by the way she peered into his eyes. He felt as if she were reading his thoughts. “Where is he?”
“Come with me, if you want him.” She led Uthyr through the trees, but for every one of her steps, Uthyr found himself having to take three or four. Soon, she walked far ahead of him. He could only glimpse her white skin and hair as she moved through the trees.
“Wait!” He broke into a run, barely able to keep her in his sight, squinting in the pale moonlight, trying to make out her figure. She slipped away, and the beautiful scent in the air faded away. The trees around him, though they were indeed apple trees, were not the sublime variety he had stood beneath that night. He felt the ground beneath his feet slope suddenly to the right as he ran, causing him to stumble. Down the hillside he slid, grasping at brush and sliding on unstable soil, until he at last tumbled in a flailing of limbs onto the shore at the bottom. He lay there a moment, heart pounding in a mix of adrenalin and sorrow, feeling as though he had been cast out of Eden. Once he had determined he had not broken any bones, he stood up and looked around. His spirits rose at the sight of a campfire nearby. He went to investigate, picking his way carefully along the marshy edges of the isle. Soon, he saw the familiar silhouette of Taliesin, poking at the coals beneath the flames with a stick.
His anguish turned to relief. “Thank God. You’re back.”
Taliesin looked up and smiled. His eyes appeared to be lit from within, as if tiny stars glimmered inside them.
“What happened to you?” Uthyr managed to whisper.
Taliesin shook his head. “I could never express to you the power and beauty of this place. Though words are tools I wield well, they are far too crude for such fine work. That’s why I asked Nimue to let you in—just for a moment—so you could experience it for yourself. The power of Affalon is not ours to wield or even to understand but rather to cherish and protect. But now, we must leave. We have work to do.”
Uthyr felt as if his heart had turned to stone. Valhalla, Igerna, and now, Ynys Wydryn—yet one more paradise just beyond my grasp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Draco’s Comet
Uthyr sat in his hall studying his maps, as he seemed to be doing quite a bit more as the moons passed. Gods, I’m tired.
Emrys’ campaign had been so successful, he now had the support of over a hundred chieftains spread out over more than twenty kingdoms. No longer able to oversee all of them himself, Emrys divided the responsibilities for his ever-growing territories between Uthyr and himself. Through the winter, he had asked Uthyr to focus on fortifying Caer Leon and defending their southwestern territories, while he strengthened their three major fortresses along the eastern seaboard: Lindum, Longthorpe and Camulodunum.
Uthyr had accepted, of course. He had enlisted the aid of Eldol and Gorlois and built an iron line of defense all the way from Caer Glou down to Anderitum on the southern shore of Rhegin. He had also employed a shrewd network of spies. With such vast territory, it was vital to stay informed of enemy movements, both within Brython and beyond. Of them all, he relied upon Bran’s clansman, Neirin, the most. His information had never been wrong, he was never hasty, and he had never been caught by the enemy.
It was Neirin whom he awaited now, eager to hear his news from the south. He did not wait long. Neirin was never late.
“My lord?” Neirin stood in the doorway with his ever-present hawk upon his arm, awaiting his invitation.
Uthyr smiled. “Lord Neirin, come in.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Neirin set down a perch by the window and gave his hawk over to it. She leapt upon it with grace, stretching her wings and then settling on to it.
Neirin approached and took the seat Uthyr gestured to. His hawk watched them from her perch, tilting her head this way and that.
“I love that bird,” Uthyr remarked, fascinated by the size of her pupils. They seemed to miss nothing.
Neirin smiled. “Thank you. She’s a fine creature.” He did not waste any more time with idle chat. “We must deal with Pasgen, my lord. He’s stirred up allies across the sea and means to launch an attack against us.”
“Dammit!” Uthyr pounded his fist on the table, causing the hawk to ruffle her feathers. “I told Emrys he would be a problem!”
Neirin gave him a calm nod. “You were right. Our contacts in Armorica report he’s rallied an army of Saxons, fattening his ranks with promises of land and coin. Now that spring has come, he has sailed to Eire and recruited Gillomanius to his cause. They are planning an attack by sea within the next moon, along the shores of Demetia. They know we lack ships. We must act quickly.”
Uthyr stood up and paced, pulling at his beard. Dear God, will I ever get the rest I crave? The hawk watched him, her eyes following him back and forth.
Pasgen, the last living son of Vortigern, had fled to Saxon lands seeking refuge after his father’s fiery defeat. Uthyr had tried to convince Emrys to have him pursued and executed before he could seek revenge, but Emrys had refused. Uthyr had taken it upon himself to keep abreast of the Pasgen’s interests and dealings across the sea, convinced the young snake would eventually slither home. And I was right. He let out a frustrated groan. “We must ride to Viroconium with this news immediately. We’ll take Taliesin and stop in Mynyth Aur on the way back. We’ll need good men.” Sorry, Lucia. Of all the northern chieftains, I trust your husband the most. I’m going to need him
again.
***
Uthyr, Neirin and Taliesin reached Emrys’ fortress four days later, but were dismayed to discover he had fallen deeply ill.
“Ill? For how long?” Uthyr demanded.
“For some time, my lord,” the physician said. “His battle wounds festered, and his recovery has been slow.”
“Come,” Uthyr said to his companions, who followed him. He rushed to his brother’s chambers and threw the doors open. A wave of indignation rose in his chest as he looked down at his brother, ailing in his bed. “Christ, Emrys! Why did you not send word? How long have you been like this?”
Emrys shook his head, ignoring his brother’s criticism. “It doesn’t matter. What brings you here?”
“That bloody bastard, Pasgen, must be dealt with.”
“What of him? He can be managed.”
Uthyr shook his head and beckoned to Neirin. “Tell him what you’ve learned.”
Neirin came forward. “My best wishes for a quick recovery, High Commander.”
Emrys nodded.
“Our sources in Armorica have reported Pasgen has raised a Saxon army against you. He’s now in Eire, having recruited Gillomanius to his cause, as well. Rumors say he plans to attack Menevia in a fortnight.”
Emrys sighed. “Gillomanius now, is it?”
“Yes, High Comm—“
“Pasgen will never stop,” Uthyr interrupted, “until he either has his revenge or we kill him. I vote for the latter. This cannot stand, brother. He must be shown no mercy.”
“Very well. Do what you will with Pasgen, but beware of Gillomanius. It would be best if we can manage to obtain what we desire without making another enemy. It’s often the weakest of enemies who prove to be the deadliest. Now, I wish to speak to Taliesin, alone.”
