This Present Past

by Traci Harding

  ‘By whose design?’ Gwion proffered, a little angered by the premise. ‘Gwyn ap Nudd?’

  ‘No.’ Morvran was amused. ‘It is the design of every participant in that realm. Will and imagination denotes whose intention prevails.’ The young lord raised both eyebrows to drive home his point. ‘Do you still think that what we are doing here is just a silly game? What is happening in the middle kingdoms is the silly game, my friend, and unless you can learn to disentangle yourself from it, you cannot hope to aid your fellow man. You shall only add to the chaos.’

  Boom! Gwion suddenly felt quite the idiot. ‘I apologise, I am but a peasant—’

  ‘No, that is not who you are.’ Creirwy had stopped spinning. ‘Look around you! Could any simple peasant have imagined this!’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Morvran answered on Gwion’s behalf.

  Seeing their beaming smiles inspired him back to better spirits. ‘You haven’t seen the half of it yet.’ His playful confidence returned, and Creirwy clapped her hands, thrilled to know more. ‘Stay put.’ He moved around to the back of the pod and grabbing hold of the top at the back he tilted the seat backwards to face the glass dome above.

  ‘I stand corrected; I could definitely sleep here.’ The Lady got comfortable.

  Gwion backed away, quietly urging Morvran back with him.

  There was a huge circular feature upon the floor on which the chair was centred and Creirwy gasped as that section of the floor began spiralling slowly upwards towards the dome above. Stairs dropped around a thick central column of glass beneath the platform, which at length exposed an opening to a chamber beneath with a bed within. The revolving structure came to a standstill and the chair was suspended at half the tower height.

  ‘I don’t believe for a minute that this doesn’t extend all the way into the dome,’ his passenger complained, and Gwion grinned.

  ‘There is more then?’ Morvran agreed with his sister.

  Gwion’s cheeky grin broadened to a smile and Creirwy squealed with delight as the central feature resumed its slow spiral rise towards the dome above, and as the stairs dropped around the central glass column they led to the entrance to another chamber located directly beneath the bedchamber. This one contained a round bath.

  ‘Compact and functional,’ grinned Morvran. ‘Now that’s lateral thinking, right there.’

  ‘You asked about the floor earlier.’ Gwion looked down at it. ‘It is black reflective glass.’

  ‘Why black?’

  ‘A mirrored floor would produce too much glare during the day, but I wanted a reflective surface, because . . .’

  The central platform came to a standstill and Creirwy was finally suspended within the dome. The movement of the sun across the sky increased and the golden orb disappeared behind the clouds to unveil the sparkling heavens above. The stars twinkling in the night sky were reflected in the floor all around them.

  ‘At night it will transform into a field of stars.’

  ‘Gwion, this is amazing!’ Creirwy called from above. ‘Mother shall be most impressed.’

  ‘How does it feel to have the power to command your own universe?’ Morvran slapped a hand on his shoulder.

  It may only have been a figment of his imagination, but it was an extremely grand illusion in Gwion’s humble opinion. ‘If only it were so in the middle kingdoms.’

  ‘It is,’ the Fey Lord encouraged. ‘But physical world matter is denser and takes longer to bend to your will. And you are dealing with time, which is not so much of a factor here – and in the Otherworld it does not factor at all.’

  Gwion’s mind was boggling. ‘So exercises like this are designed to build the mental muscle to effect the same kind of influence over circumstances in the middle kingdoms?’

  ‘Of course.’ Morvran looked to the one feature in the room that they had not discussed. It was the part of the inner tower wall that broke the curve, where the entrance doors were located and the room connected to the rest of Castell Tegid. It was a simple stone wall and a little way above the doors was a passage, only large enough to crawl through. ‘So what is that for?’

  A screech from within rendered the answer elementary. The sirrush came thundering down the passage and launched itself into the moonlit tower, swooping round and round.

  ‘It leads to its cave in your room.’ Gwion shrugged. ‘In case it wants to visit. I thought it better than the creature banging your door down.’

  ‘Good show.’ Morvran observed the creature coming to land in the first level doorway of the glass tower within the tower, where the bed was located. ‘Now it can disturb your sleep and not mine.’

  Shifting forward in the seat, Creirwy brought the chair back to sitting and climbed out of it to descend the spiralling stairs. ‘Speaking of sleep, we should leave you to do just that. His royal pain shall be here demanding his damn sword before we know it.’

  ‘You think the King should refuse the Otherworldly gift?’ Creirwy’s tone made that painfully obvious to Gwion.

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘But can he still refuse it?’ Gwion suspected. ‘What would happen if he did?’

  ‘Every soul has freedom of choice,’ Creirwy proffered by way of an answer. ‘Yet, if he did refuse at this point, he would then have to slay as many of our enemy as souls are owed to the Night Hunter using only his personal skill with a sword.’

  ‘No help from his army?’ Gwion found the odds of that premise disturbing.

  The Lady gently shook her head. ‘When he agreed to the sword, the King also assumed responsibility for meeting the Night Hunter’s soul count personally.’

  Gwion wavered about in his stance as he withheld the urge to curse his king for being so gullible. ‘Perhaps I can still persuade him—’

  ‘Gwion,’ Morvran cut in. ‘You’re doing it again. Getting yourself entangled in the petty wars of men will only be detrimental to you and them at this early stage of your education.’

  ‘Has what you’ve just been through not demonstrated that perfectly?’ Creirwy finally joined them on the ground level of the chamber, and Gwion was unhappy to see a vial of the Otherworldly brew she’d been feeding him in her hand.

  ‘Please, no more of that stuff.’ He backed away from her offering.

  ‘Do you want your youth back, or not?’

  Gwion relented and held out his hand to volunteer compliance. Vial in hand, he stared into the glowing green brew. He thought to ask what was in it, but then perhaps it was better that he did not know. The thought did occur that perhaps it was some kind of mind-altering drug, and this wondrous place was but a dream. Still, even if that were the case, Gwion had no desire to wake just yet, and so he drank.

  DYRNWYN

  King Owain was fuming when he found the Lady Tegid and her brother waiting to greet the royal party in the courtyard at Castell Tegid.

  ‘The only way you could have beaten us here is by Otherworldly means.’ The King directed his discontent at the Lady as he dismounted. ‘And if you had such means, why did you not say so, when you know Mon is in peril?’

  ‘Is it?’ she said as if either disinterested or disbelieving.

  ‘You know very well Caswallon is besieged—’

  The King’s companions, Brockwell, Gilmore and Tiernan, were all dismounting when another rider entered the courtyard who was not part of their party.

  ‘Madoc?’ The King was surprised to see him as he was supposed to be leading their army to Mon. ‘Why are you not with our force?’

  Madoc climbed down from his saddle and landed near the King, bowing before him. ‘Apologies, Sire, but I bear news from Mon.’

  The King urged him to rise with a wave of his upturned hand. ‘How fares Caswallon?’

  ‘There has been an Otherworldly miracle, Majesty. A dragon—’

  Tiernan gasped and Brockwell slapped a hand over the lad’s mouth.

  ‘A dragon?’ The King ignored the distraction, sounding more disturbed than sceptical – well aware that wha
tever damage the creature had done was ultimately his fault.

  ‘Yes, Sire, I know how it sounds . . .’ Madoc was a little red-cheeked. ‘But I am assured this report is true.’

  ‘What has the dragon done?’ the King was anxious to be informed.

  ‘It has aided your brother, Caswallon, to drive every last one of the raiders back into the sea, where the dragon took out every boat and occupant as they fled back to their Winter Isle.’

  ‘By the Goddess!’ Owain looked to his party who were all equally stunned and cheered by the news. ‘We’ve done it, we’ve driven all the foreign raiders from our land.’

  ‘Cymru am byth!’ cheered Brockwell, releasing Tiernan, and all the men present repeated the sentiment with fervour.

  ‘Gwynedd is in celebration, Sire, and the people are heralding Caswallon as the new Pen Dragon,’ Madoc relayed, and the announcement put a bit of a dampener on the good mood of all in the King’s company – ‘pen’ meaning head or chief.

  Brockwell was particularly out of sorts. ‘Caswallon didn’t have anything to do with—’

  ‘It is all to the glory of the Arth, and the Sons.’ The King rested a hand upon his companion’s chest and with a shake of his head silenced his protest. ‘That is well,’ Owain told Madoc, forcing a smile. ‘And where is the dragon now?’

  ‘It chased the raiders out to sea and has not been seen since,’ the warrior concluded his report. ‘But your brother still urges you to join him at your former ancestral stronghold on Ynys Mon.’

  The King frowned. ‘But that stronghold is in ruins.’

  ‘I believe Caswallon has plans to resurrect it, in honour of your father and esteemed grandfather, who first built it.’

  The King was thoughtful and at length smiled. ‘We shall need a fortress there to protect against future attack from the sea.’

  Madoc and the rest of the King’s party nodded to concur.

  At last the King’s attention returned to the Lady Tegid, who raised her eyebrows. ‘You were saying?’

  A myriad of expressions – frustration, anger, relief, insult – flashed across the King’s face, but he resolved to a kind smile. ‘You knew.’

  ‘I had a suspicion only.’

  ‘Still, you could have said.’

  ‘You do not listen to me,’ she replied sweetly, ‘a point that shall only be repeated this day, I fear.’

  The King, with some effort, refrained from comment and turned to the only man present who had no idea of their purpose at Castell Tegid. ‘Thank you, Madoc. I bid you to return and release our men to return home, or to join us in celebration on Mon.’

  ‘With pleasure, Sire.’ Madoc bowed.

  ‘You might wish to keep some of your force handy,’ the Lady Tegid suggested, before Madoc could depart to his mount.

  All eyes returned to her.

  ‘Why?’ The King’s patience was running short again.

  ‘Because despite what happened this day, my Lord demands the souls of the enemy you have entrapped, and he wishes that you see to it personally, as per your agreement.’

  ‘What!’ Brockwell strongly objected. ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘One more soul against your king’s debt would not go astray,’ the Lady riled Brockwell further.

  Again Owain intervened and urged his brother-to-be to calm, with a gentle shove aside. ‘They were to be healed by Gwion—’

  ‘That was never part of the deal.’

  ‘Neither was me slaying all the remaining undead,’ the King countered.

  ‘I’m afraid that when you agreed to the Lord’s gift it became your personal responsibility.’ The Lady Tegid served the King a look, but refrained from saying ‘I warned you’.

  ‘Then I demand a re-negotiation!’ Brockwell fumed. ‘I shall make a deal.’

  ‘I can arrange that for you,’ the Lady invited.

  ‘No!’ The King took a few deep breaths before turning to Madoc, who appeared quite alarmed. ‘Retain my royal guard and return with them to the stockade. I will join you there presently.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’ Madoc cast an unfavourable glance towards the royal Tegid siblings and withdrew to his horse.

  Everyone was silent until the messenger left, and then the King looked to the Lady and asked in earnest, ‘I assume that if I refuse the sword at this point, it shall still fall to me to fulfil the Night Hunter’s soul count?’

  The Lady nodded solemnly.

  ‘And if I were to be killed in the attempt?’

  ‘The debt will fall to your next of kin.’

  Clearly, that was exactly what Owain feared. ‘Caswallon.’ The King had no heir of his own. ‘But with the sword I cannot fail.’

  ‘True,’ the Lady conceded. ‘But the price you named for the sword’s aid will be collected.’

  ‘There is another price to pay?’ Brockwell was incensed. ‘Is the senseless slaughter of damned men not bad enough?’

  ‘Whatever I traded, surely it is better than running the risk of my kin being indebted to the Night Hunter indefinitely,’ the King reasoned. ‘And the sword ensures my reign, and security for all the kingdoms of the Cymry.’

  ‘Only until your toll is met.’ Brockwell rolled his head around, not wanting to sanction the deal, yet he, like his king, saw no other option. At length, and none too happy, he nodded.

  ‘I accept the Night Hunter’s terms and his gift,’ the King formally announced.

  The Lady Tegid’s stony expression reflected the heavy mood of the men before her. ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’ She turned and led them out of the courtyard and towards the lake.

  The mist was not the only natural force the Lady Tegid’s voice could command. On the shore of Llyn Tegid she stood upon a large rock that extended into the water. For this rite she dressed in white, the long fair strands of her hair floating on the chilly dawn wind of the grey, misty morn. With every haunting note she sang, the water became increasingly turbulent, and as her song reached its crescendo, the waters at her feet parted to form a long corridor down into the lake bed. At the end of the corridor was a boulder, and from it sprouted an old rusty sword, pitted by corrosion and covered in weeds, its blade wedged in the rock.

  The awe and reverence of the King’s party quickly departed. ‘Is this a joke?’ The King climbed onto the rock on which Creirwy stood, seeing now that the smooth stone was the beginning of a long path that led into the lake to the sword. ‘Even if I could get it out, its glory days are surely done.’

  ‘Worthless is exactly how you wish a great treasure to appear,’ she replied as she proceeded down the path between the walls of churning water.

  The King took pause before proceeding – perhaps considering whether this was a trap to drown him.

  The Lady Tegid turned around. ‘Having second thoughts?’

  ‘NO!’ Gwion awoke with a start. Heart racing, sweating in panic, he scrambled from his bed.

  The sirrush was curled up beside him and squawked in objection to being disturbed.

  ‘I’m missing it!’ He near ran off the first floor of his tower and teetered back from the edge to envision the level below collapsing straight down into the floor so that he was lowered to ground level. He issued a mental command for his doors to part and sprinted out into the hallway.

  But this was not the grand hallway he’d been in the day before. It was grand enough by current standards, but it was stone and stripped of all grandeur. This space was lit by torches and the little daylight that seeped through the arrow slit windows in the stone, down the stairwell.

  The transformation did not stun Gwion long; he galloped down the stone stairs and was disconcerted to find Keridwen awaiting him in the foyer in front of the closed doors.

  ‘I have to stop him,’ Gwion appealed.

  ‘Why on earth do you think that? As the situation now stands, it is your king’s best possible course of action, trust me.’

  ‘But it will come at great personal cost—’

  ‘Kingship always comes at g
reat personal cost, Gwion. Being able to accept that wholeheartedly for the good of the realm is what makes a king great.’

  Gwion was puzzled as until now he’d felt Keridwen highly sympathetic to the human condition. ‘Whose side are you on?’ Was she conspiring with the Night Hunter to control the King? To control him?

  ‘Careful,’ the Goddess warned. ‘I insult easily. And you are free to leave at any time . . . before we start our project.’

  Damn it, Gwion recalled his mistress’s mind-reading advantage.

  ‘King Owain loves his brothers; he will never stand to see them inherit a curse of his making,’ Keridwen explained. ‘You heard me attempt to warn him away from further dealings with the Night Hunter and he would not listen! He has put me in debt to the Night Hunter, so that he might have time to pursue this end. This situation was not of my design.’

  Gwion immediately regretted questioning the Goddess’s intentions.

  ‘There are only so many times you can warn a man.’ Her tone softened. ‘Each time the King has ignored our advice he has cemented his intention into his destiny.’

  The doors behind Keridwen parted, and hearing the commotion beyond, Gwion joined her to observe the mirth.

  The young king was brandishing a spectacular sword that appeared to have a blade made of pure flame! For it glowed like molten metal, yet its shape held true to form. The rest of his small party chanted the name ‘Dyrnwyn’ – meaning ‘White Hilt’. It played to Owain’s own nickname, Ddantgwyn – ‘white tooth’.

  When the King spotted Gwion standing by the Goddess looking on, he called to him. ‘Is it not amazing? You missed it!’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Gwion observed the Lady Tegid scaling the stairs on her way inside, her disenchantment causing her to scowl.

  ‘My fault. I let you sleep.’ Creirwy took responsibility for Gwion missing out. ‘Congratulations on being returned to your prime – also my fault,’ she quipped coolly, her pace quickening to escape up the stairs.

  ‘Am I?’ Gwion felt his face was smooth under his hand, his hair had shed its coarseness, though it was in need of a good wash like the rest of him. Come to think of it, he had woken without pain and was lighter on his feet today than yesterday. ‘Thank you, Lady,’ he called up after her. ‘I am deeply indebted—’