by Myers, Karen
Maelgwn protested, “No, that was a hen. Those feathers are from a cock.”
“A handsome bird, then,” Gwion said, accepting the correction jovially.
George noticed his empty glass and gestured to Alun for a general refill. Brynach turned him down, and the lutins, but the four grown men were still game.
“So, what’s the most exciting quarry you’ve ever hunted?” George asked Gwion.
“Boar is always a strong contender for that honor,” he said. “So much more dangerous than any of the deer.”
George thought the medieval hunters might not agree. He remembered the old French saying, Pour le sanglier faut le mière, pour le cerf convient la bière—that is, for a boar you need a healer, for a deer bring a bier. They must have known what they were talking about. Didn’t one of William the Conqueror’s sons die that way?
Dyfnallt offered, “Bear, I think. Costly to the hounds, and too rare for them to learn caution.”
“You still have bear in Britain? The big ones?” George asked. He was thinking of European brown bear, cousins of the grizzly. Dyfnallt nodded.
George glanced at Rhodri. “No, not here,” Rhodri replied to the implied question. “And we don’t hunt black bear with hounds. Dire wolves, on the other hand…” He thought for a moment. “I’ll wager they’ve never hunted tapir.”
“What’s that?” Gwion said.
“We find them in the southern part of our domain. They’re shaped like a boar, but they’re not swine. I don’t really know what they are. I’m told we got tired of trying to winkle them out of water all the time, so we brought wild boar and switched back to them.”
Brynach spoke up. “My uncle Eurig has one from the old days, as a trophy. I’ve never seen one alive, though I hear they’re not uncommon. They have funny noses.”
George didn’t know if there were ice age tapir in North America at one time. “Prehensile, aren’t they?”
“What’s that?” Brynach said.
“You know,” Rhodri said, “Like an oliphant, grabs things with its nose.”
“Oh, with the tusks and all the hair. Yes, it’s like a small one of those.”
That doesn’t sound like an elephant, George thought. That sounds like a mammoth or maybe a mastodon. “Tell me about those,” he said, urgently. He held his glass out absently as Alun came by for another refill.
Rhodri looked at him in surprise. “Well, we don’t hunt them with hounds, of course. Much too big. In fact, we mostly leave them alone unless they become fond of our crops. Then we teach them a bit of respect. They live in the woods, but keep their distance from our settlements.” He surveyed the confusion on Gwion and Dyfnallt’s faces. “Haven’t you ever seen one?”
They shook their heads, and George joined them.
“I’ll have Ceridwen show you pictures. If we hear of one making a nuisance of itself while you’re here, maybe you can come along and watch the hunt.”
George sat stunned in his chair. Forest dwellers. Must be mastodons. He needed a book on extinct mammals, right away.
Angharad looked at him. “What’s the matter?”
He just shook his head. Too hard to explain, especially after a few drinks.
Gwion gestured a bit wildly with his glass, and Alun unobstrusively topped it up. “I want to know more about this ballad of yours, huntsman. Just what is your relationship with Cernunnos?”
Rhodri laughed. “That song made it all the way to the old world already? I’ve got to tell Cydifor, he’ll be so pleased.”
“I think it must be everywhere by now,” Gwion said.
“I was there when he made it,” Rhodri boasted. George frowned at him but he went on obliviously. “You should have seen our huntsman blush.”
Over his shoulder, George could see Rhian and Maelgwn grinning. He couldn’t think quickly enough how to turn the topic to something else.
Brynach said, “I’ve never heard it. What are you talking about?”
“When George came back from Dyffryn Camarch with Rhys and Maelgwn, Cydifor wrote a praise ballad of what had happened there and sang it for us all,” Rhodri said.
Gwion added, gleefully, “The korrigans are carrying it around wherever they go.” He paused, as the thought struck him. “We should try singing it together, see if our versions are different.”
Oh, no. George sat frozen, mesmerized by the approaching train wreck. Rhodri popped up out of his seat and hummed a few notes experimentally to set the range. Gwion rose carefully and joined him, while Dyfnallt seemed content to just watch. Or maybe he’d had enough to drink that standing wasn’t an appealing option, George thought.
Ives, Brynach, and Alun, to all of whom this was new, were riveted as Rhodri started them off, the two singers fumbling for the words and leaning on each other, laughing when they disagreed. George saw Angharad rolling her eyes at the performance and almost lost his composure himself.
Well, it may be a disaster to have all this information out there about the ways and what he did, he thought, but Gwion’s too hammered to follow up with pointed questions tonight. Good thing, since I’m in no shape to come up with clever answers myself.
He sat with a hand over his eyes while the singers warbled to a conclusion, and shook his head. Brynach looked at him as if to quiz him about specifics, and George raised his hand. “Don’t ask,” he recommended.
Angharad took charge of the remains of the party before it could degenerate further. “I think it’s time we all headed to our beds,” she said, firmly. “Brynach, will you see Rhian home?” They both had rooms in the manor house. “And Rhodri, too? I believe he could use a hand.” Maelgwn got the door for them.
George wondered, but not too hard, what the sober youngsters made of this exhibition of their elders. He didn’t envy Rhodri left to their care, grateful that he himself had only to climb the stairs in his own house.
Gwion and Dyfnallt walked unevenly together to the door.
“More hunts like today,” Dyfnallt intoned, raising his hand in a shaky benediction, and George nodded at the wish.
“And more feasts, too. Thank you, huntsman.” Gwion’s sincere smile brought an answering one from George. The two men wandered up the lane together, slowly, leaning on each other. At least they weren’t singing to wake the neighbors, he thought.
Benitoe and Ives grinned and bowed to their host, then headed out the back door toward their own quarters.
“Thanks, Alun,” George said after all the doors were shut. “That’s what I wanted, everyone with drink taken.” He blinked at Angharad. “I thought that went well.”
“Did you, now?” she said, tolerantly. “Find out what you wanted?”
George half-smiled when he saw Maelgwn’s realization that this had all been planned. “Ask me in the morning.” He looked up at the long, long flight of stairs in dismay. “After everything stops moving.”
CHAPTER 6
George knocked on Ceridwen’s door for his Tuesday afternoon session with determination. No more ancient history for him. He planned an end run around whatever topics she had in mind and swore she wouldn’t divert him this time.
He joined her in her comfortable library, and she rose from her desk near the window to greet him. She was tall, older than Gwyn but still only middle-aged, and it occurred to him again to wonder just how old she was. She summoned hot tea for them both and they settled in the chairs in front of the fire to enjoy it.
“We missed you and Rhodri at this morning’s hunt,” George said.
“We were with Seething Magma and her sister Ash Tremor, setting up a class schedule.”
“Have you decided who will be teaching the rock-wights to read?” George asked.
“It’s almost done now,” she said.
He stared at her.
She explained, “We gave them the basic concepts in Edgewood—all they needed were the details. Look.”
She stood and walked over to her desk and brought back a piece of paper which she handed to George. In n
eat rows an unfamiliar hand had printed an alphabet and some simple words showing a variety of pronunciations.
“Who wrote this?”
“That’s Ash Tremor’s hand, um, pseudopod. Making a point for writing is simple, they don’t need a pen as long as we can supply ink and paper.”
She took back the paper. “I provided some basic primers, such as we use for children. And then Rhodri and I spent much of the morning just sitting there talking while they matched words and sounds. They’re not fond of irregular forms and unexpected spellings, but it’s not difficult for them, merely tedious. Tell them something once, and they’ve got it. Nothing wrong with their memories.”
Ceridwen gestured to set the scene. “When we left, Mag was carrying the basket with the paper and ink supplies and Ash Tremor held the books in another basket. They went off into their own way underground like two matrons going to market. I think they intend to teach others.”
George tried to picture it. “Can they see in the dark? Do they make lights?”
“We haven’t asked yet. You know we can’t hear any answers much more complicated than yes or no without you along. They’ll be able to write to us all, soon enough.”
A thought struck her. “Oh, did you hear? Rhodri asked Mag to hollow out a spot for us in the rock face. We intend to build a place where books could be stored, where we could set up chairs and and shelter from bad weather.”
“Make it big enough to store musical instruments,” he said. “I’m not sure if they can transport them underground or not.”
“That reminds me. These are for you.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out two small wooden blocks, each about one inch by two, and half an inch thick. They were carved on one side with a cup and the number 3, and there was a hole bored in one end, lined with silver. “Here’s your token for the way Mag made, and one for Maelgwn. They agreed to let us own that way, and Rhodri thought Maelgwn might want to visit with Cloudie sometimes.”
George had never actually handled a formal way-token before. “I recognize the cup, of course, her symbol from our conversations in Edgewood, but why the number?”
“Don’t you remember? That’s the third way of hers we know about, for our reckoning. The first was the internal one at Edgewood between the Archer’s Way and the manor, and then the one she made bringing Cloudie back after Madog’s death.”
“The one she made to kill Madog over in Dyffryn Camarch doesn’t count?”
“Rhodri closed it, and we assumed you’d destroy it, the next time you’re there. In any case, it doesn’t really matter. We just need a method of naming the ways unambiguously.”
“Is there some book that keeps track of these names and symbols, like a book of coats of arms? There’s no other way that uses a cup as its label?”
Ceridwen leaned forward. “Ways are commonly named for their discoverers, and they each have symbols representing their names. If you found one, for example, it would bear your oak tree. Others have unique names or local names. It’s not as systematized as your heraldry, though it’s related. A name could be duplicated, from some other part of the world, but it wouldn’t matter—the token would only work for its actual keyed way.”
“A way can have more than one name, sometimes,” she continued. “Our Travelers’ Way is also Trevor Mawr’s 37th way—he’s the one that found it. His mark is a walled town, but the tokens for the way are engraved with three waves instead, to mark the ocean that it crosses. Earlier versions have both markings, one on each face.”
She took a token back to show him. “Look here on the side,” she said. “See the solid circle?”
He nodded.
“That indicates a token that will work on a closed way. If it were for the open way only, the circle would be an outline.”
“And these tokens would stop working if, say, Mag took back the ownership, right?”
“Yes. She’d have to issue new ones or, since she can’t, someone like Rhodri would do it on her behalf. Most rulers aren’t themselves way-adepts. Madog was very much an exception.” She gave him back the token.
“Gwyn doesn’t make his own tokens, then?”
“No, he’s not skilled enough in that talent. Rhodri is the latest to make way-tokens for him, master-tokens and as many lesser ones as needed. Given a master-token, a way-adept can make the others. He just transfers the identity from the master-token, with whatever limitations are required.”
George considered the implications. “They must be very valuable, like the keys to the treasure house. What happens if they’re stolen or destroyed?”
“A wise ruler has safeguards both physical and magical, and some keep duplicates elsewhere in case of a disaster like fire. Gwyn’s are very well protected. A way can only have one owner, or rather, each end has only one owner, usually the same person. If a master-token is taken, the thief could use it to travel even a closed way, and a way-adept could use it to transfer the ownership. Once the ownership changes hands, the old master-token and its derivatives are useless and a new one must be made.”
George rubbed his thumb over the fresh cuts on the faces of the tokens and slipped them into a chest pocket of his coat.
With that taken care of, Ceridwen lifted her hand to begin the day’s lesson, and George interrupted her.
“My lady, please. I know you’re trying to lay things out for me as efficiently as possible in these lectures by starting in the remote past, but I need to get some questions answered, and then fill around them later. Please indulge me.”
He looked up at her face and took her silence for at least conditional assent. “For example, who, right now, are the important powers in the world, Gwyn’s peers?”
For a moment he thought she wouldn’t agree, but she relented.
“The ones that matter to us, at this time, are the families in Britain and in Gaul. You know of their current rulers: Gwyn’s father Lludd in Britain, and his brother Llefelys in Gaul. Their father is Beli Mawr.”
“But he no longer rules, correct?”
“He’s semi-retired on his domain on ancestral lands, here.” They stood and walked over to a map of western Europe that hung near her desk. She pointed at the northwest corner of Wales, at the island of Anglesey. “His seat is at Ynys Môn, and his lands spread over the mainland adjacent, all that can be seen from Yr Wydffa.” George realized that must be Mount Snowdon.
“Why is he retired? How old is he?”
“I don’t know his age, exactly. Certainly four thousand years or more.” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t believe we’ve talked about aging in the fae.”
“No, we haven’t. You’re not immortal, clearly, but how long is a normal lifespan?”
“That’s just it,” she said. “It varies. Those of mixed blood may live a few hundred years, or just a human lifespan, like your grandmother.” She gave him a look of apology. “It’s partly a matter of luck. Two mixed blood siblings may have very different natural lives, and the strength of the fae blood has little to do with it.”
“So my grandmother, Gwyn’s daughter, was unlucky, and Thomas Kethin, the son of a serving maid, was fortunate.” Thomas Kethin’s father had been Thomas, Lord Fairfax, who had visited Greenway Court as Gwyn’s guest more than 250 years ago.
“Yes, that’s it. Only after someone passes the appearance of middle-age does he have a reasonable understanding of how long he is likely to live, even for the purest bred. Age and power are related, strongly, and the weakest among us don’t expect to live more than a few hundred years, like the strongest of the half-bloods.”
“But what’s the upper limit?” he asked. “Are there many of Beli Mawr’s age?”
“No others,” she said, “that I know of.”
At George’s look of surprise she continued. “It is said—we do not know for certain—that some of our gods were once as we are, that they’re just… very old.”
He hesitated before speaking. “I’ve seen few fae that seem older than Gwyn.
There’s Cadugan, Rhys’s steward. Eurig and Tegwen, I suppose,” he said. “And you.”
“Cadugan is younger, and will be shorter-lived than Gwyn, since he’s aging more rapidly. Eurig and Tegwen are older than Gwyn.”
George glanced at her quizzically, waiting for the rest of her response.
“Yes, and I am older, too, but nothing like Beli Mawr.”
He said, “Are you telling me that he’s in the process of becoming a god?”
“We don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps.”
“And you don’t know if this will happen to you?”
She nodded. “I have few contemporaries now.”
“What about Gwyn’s father?”
“I knew him as a boy. He’s starting to show the signs of age. He will not live so very long,” she said, with a faint trace of contempt. “His brother Llefelys, perhaps, may do better.”
“I would expect Lludd to resent that, to feel cheated,” George said. “It must make for a lot of envy, not to know for so many years what’s likely to happen and then to be disappointed.”
“Lludd is one to resent many things.”
From having been reluctant to start, Ceridwen warmed up to her subject.
“You wanted to know about the personalities. You can’t understand all their motivations without the details I was giving you,” she warned, “but it’s easy enough to paint a picture of how the relationships work and you can learn more about why later.”
“What matters most to us is Lludd. He’s jealous of his power, the more so as he begins to see clearly that he will not last forever. All his actions are motivated by the desire to expand and consolidate it. He views his family as an extension of himself, and this has driven most of them away. His brother visits rarely. Gwyn moved Annwn here to remove himself and the appearance of an allegiance he thinks is undue. Edern has retreated into his own domains and encouraged his father to think of him as both non-threatening and not useful for any plans of aggrandizement.”
