This Present Past

by Traci Harding

  ‘Hers is a thankless calling,’ Keridwen commented. ‘She’ll be more receptive when these warriors have departed.’

  The King approached to show Gwion the sword, and as he did the glowing red faded to sparkling silver, the blade embossed to look like dragon scales. True to its new name, the grip on the hilt was pearly white. ‘I pulled a rotten old relic from a great boulder in the lake, and it transformed into this magnificent weapon right in my hands!’

  The King was exalted beyond reason with his Otherworldly treasure, for it ensured not only his kingdom, but his legend. Gwion sincerely hoped this moment of elation would be worth whatever the King had traded for the honour. ‘May it bring your majesty and all the Cymry well-earned peace from our enemies.’

  ‘Between this and a dragon, who will dare breach our borders?’ Brockwell boasted.

  Outwardly Gwion smiled, yet inwardly he knew that in all likelihood the greatest enemy was not beyond their borders, and this sword would bring the King anything but peace.

  While the Goddess was in private audience with the King, Gwion used the time to clean himself up. He’d never been submerged in hot water – he’d never even conceived of it until he’d seen Creirwy’s bathhouse – and the untold pleasure wove a sleepy spell more efficiently than any of the Fey could.

  The sirrush was not so enchanted. It stalked around the perimeter not knowing what to make of the steamy sandstone pool that was cradled in the lowest level at the base of the glass tower within the tower, directly beneath the bed chamber.

  Gwion reached out to stroke the creature, but seeing the steam rising from his arms, it retreated and flew to the safety of its tunnel over the door. Gwion, on the other hand, found the sight rather mesmerising. Gwion the steam god. The notion roused a smile.

  He sank back to his restful position, his mind awhirl with random memories of the events that had led him to this splendid place. All the worry for his king, Creirwy, his combrogi, the future, melted away. After the pain of being old, feeling his young form so relaxed was unmitigated bliss. As a young man he’d never really appreciated how precious his youth was, how liberating! Was it any wonder kings and legends scoured the earth to find the secret to immortality?

  A knock on the door was a rude awakening, and he sat bolt upright. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Morvran. I have some fresh clothes for you.’

  Gwion felt cleaner than he ever had, and a glance at the filthy rags he’d taken off brought no desire to put them back on. ‘Come in.’ He gave the doors leave to part long enough to admit Morvran, who entered with a swathe of garments draped over his arm.

  ‘Mother sends these with her regards.’ Morvran looked around the minimalist tower, in search of a place to lay them, so Gwion dreamed up a bench. ‘Many thanks.’ The Lord laid down his load. ‘She imagined you would try and refresh your old clothes, but when you ride out with the King, they will return to the same stinky rags you entered Castell Tegid in. These clothes were crafted in the middle kingdoms and so will not fail you.’ Morvran turned to depart.

  ‘Wait.’ Gwion stood and imagined a sheet in which to wrap himself before he bumbled his way out of the bath, his muscles feeling like they had turned to mush. ‘I’m to ride out with the King?’

  Morvran turned about and chuckled at the state of Gwion. ‘Look at you all pink and steamy.’

  ‘The King?’ Gwion raised both brows, feeling that matter more pressing.

  ‘Oh yes. You are to dress and report to Mother in her audience chamber.’ Morvran turned to exit, but finding the door still closed, he looked back to Gwion. ‘She will explain, I am just the messenger.’

  Gwion bid the doors open and watched Morvran depart. ‘Gratitude,’ he called, eyeing the garments that looked fit for a king, though in the more humble shade of brown. Except for the white linen shirt, which he touched with relish; it was a far cry from his dirty tunic of badly woven wool. The shorter over-tunic was made of fine brown leather, as were the pants that strapped around the lower leg, and the ankle-high boots. Over this was to be worn a fine wool cape, with a hood, that fastened at the shoulder with a bronze, three-pointed-knot brooch. Gwion thought the leather would be stiff and uncomfortable, but instead it stretched and gave like a second skin.

  ‘These clothes are far more splendid than anything I could have dreamed up.’ He admired his reflection in a mirror that he’d imagined onto a wall between the windows. Gwion moved in close, having never come face to face with his reflection before. His eyes were greenish-brown and rather large compared to most. Long, fair waves sprouted from high upon his brow, cow-licked up and then fell in long waves about his face – the mop badly needed a cut! He manifest a blade, cut some excess leather from his leg straps and tied his hair back in a tail at the back of his neck. Standing back to admire his new clothes, Gwion very much liked what he saw. He would never look noble, but he at least appeared a man of import and refinement.

  On his way out to his appointment he willed his humble clothes to vanish and with that, the simple woodsman was no more. Gwion was an honoured student of the ancient mysteries, under the tutelage of the most esteemed teacher in all the land, and if nothing else, at least he now looked the part.

  At the bottom of the staircase Gwion crossed the foyer to approach the entrance doors to the audience chamber and spied a set of double doors in the wall to his right that opened into a huge hall. This was not a feature in Castell Tegid proper. The King’s men were seated around a bench at the farthest end by the hearth, eating their fill of the contents of the large pot simmering there – it smelled like hearty winter stew. There was bread on the table, and jugs – no doubt filled with mead.

  ‘Woodsman!’ Brockwell spotted him.

  It made Gwion cringe a little to answer to his label, yet without his woodcraft, he would never have landed this appointment.

  ‘You are young again!’ The warrior prince began to wander his way, sipping from a horn of mead in his hand.

  ‘I am,’ Gwion concurred, forcing a smile.

  ‘And you look half respectable!’ Brockwell approached to eye over Gwion’s new attire, which was finer than the Prince’s own battleworn vestments.

  ‘I am in the service of the Goddess now, and a student of cosmic law.’

  Brockwell frowned, eyeing him warily. ‘Well . . . good luck with that. It certainly seems to be paying off for you so far.’

  The doors to the audience chamber opened and the King entered the foyer, smiling upon sighting Gwion. ‘Gwion! Keridwen will see you now.’ Owain grasped Gwion’s shoulder momentarily and moved to join his men for a meal.

  Gwion’s mouth hung open for lack of a chance to query what the plan was, and so shut it again and moved on to seek reason from the source.

  ‘You called, Mistress?’ Gwion bowed before her as the doors behind him enclosed them in private conference.

  The grand audience chamber wore its simple guise this day, and Keridwen was in the form of the old twisted crone. She was seated comfortably on her throne, smiling like a proud parent, perhaps pleased by his transformation.

  ‘The King has requested that you accompany him back to the stockade to witness his debt to Gwyn ap Nudd settled. But it is entirely up to you whether or not you choose to go.’

  ‘But I thought you said—’

  ‘You are not to heal any of them.’ She was adamant. ‘The fate of their souls is as I have said.’

  Gwion was bemused. ‘Then what is my purpose—?’

  ‘The King wishes to borrow you, to act as his moral and spiritual adviser.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Gwion was confused.

  ‘He sees you as a holy man, blessed by the Gods.’

  Gwion burst out laughing, amused that anyone could think such a thing of him, especially a king! He was no druid – such a vocation came only after half a lifetime of dedicated study.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ Keridwen snapped, and Gwion sobered very quickly. ‘The King is not the idiot my daughter would have
you believe. His instinct about you is entirely accurate.’

  Gwion exhaled as if winded, petrified by the honour. ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘That is the only true wisdom – we are all in the dark, in a cosmological sense. But we make the most of that which is within our power, and accept the rest as the will of the divine.’

  ‘The divine?’

  ‘The collective consciousness of all there is.’

  Gwion felt calm every time the Goddess spoke of the great mysteries and he could hardly wait to begin his study; what she was saying aligned with what Morvran had told him yesterday. He’d also been told to avoid getting embroiled in the events of the middle kingdoms – was this a test of his resolve? ‘If it is your will that I go, I shall go. But I do not wish to delay our project to hold the King’s hand—’

  ‘This chore will be no petty matter for him,’ she enlightened. ‘He may be a hardened warrior, but at heart he is still a young lad, forced to manhood before his time. Slaying men in battle is one thing . . . this chore is quite something else.’

  As Gwion imagined the scene, a cold chill swept over him and his stomach turned as he felt for the young leader. ‘I will of course assist if I can, yet I fear I am ill-prepared to guide him. What if something arises that I don’t have an answer for? Surely it is you who should go, or even Morvran is wiser than I.’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ she insisted. ‘The King chose you. And I would not send you ill-prepared.’ She pulled a pouch from within her robes and held it out for him to take.

  He remained where he stood and imagined the offering in his upturned hand. It disappeared from her hand and appeared in his own.

  ‘Very good.’ She was clearly delighted that he was catching on so fast.

  Gwion pulled from the pouch a wee vial that hung from a neck chain, with contents that glowed a rich purple. ‘What is it, Mistress?’ He wondered about the colour as Creirwy had told him different colours held different powers.

  ‘Mind magic,’ she replied. ‘If you find yourself in any situation that is beyond fathoming, drink this and it will aid you to the best course of action.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Such magic was surely a priceless treasure.

  ‘Keep it hidden.’

  Gwion felt that she was stating the obvious. ‘I will.’ He placed the chain around his neck, and it hung long, so as to be easily hidden or utilised.

  ‘Use it as a very last resort. The effect will be short-lived, gone within a day . . . then you will feel depleted and be left to your own devices.’

  ‘Will I age again?’ Gwion did not like the thought.

  ‘No. But all magic is taxing on a human form; you will need rest afterwards.’

  Gwion nodded to heed the warning and slipped the vial down beneath his layers of clothes, where it sat warm against his chest – not at all as cold as expected. ‘Have you foreseen adversity?’

  Keridwen took pause before responding. ‘Nothing is straightforward when it comes to the Night Hunter’s sport. It is my inclination to expect foul play.’

  Suddenly Gwion was not as averse to this journey – the Night Hunter intrigued him.

  A laugh slipped from Keridwen’s lips but she smothered it instantly, and was straight-faced once again. ‘You must be stoic in his presence.’

  ‘Stoic?’ He was not familiar with this term.

  ‘It is to be free from passion, unmoved by joy or grief, for only then are you aligned to natural law.’

  Gwion was overwhelmed; she made this sound easy done, and for one of the Fey, no doubt it was. ‘But how, Mistress, by what means can I become so neutral?’

  ‘My son tells me you went spirit walking?’

  Gwion was a little thrown by the shift in the conversation. ‘In Morvran’s opinion—’

  ‘During that experience, did you question, or resist what was going on around you? Were you panicked?’

  ‘No,’ Gwion uttered, with an inkling that this was leading somewhere after all.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I observed.’ A spark of clarity fired his brain.

  ‘Without judgement, without feeling, you detach from the self and connect to all there is. Focus and determination will harness that same clarity and sense of oneness in a fully conscious state, whereupon you become the observer.’

  Gwion remembered that feeling, but how easy that would be to capture in the middle of a crisis was another thing again.

  ‘The trust of others is worthless if you cannot have a little faith in yourself.’

  ‘This has all happened so fast that I am struggling to keep pace.’ Gwion didn’t want to disappoint his new patron.

  ‘If you cannot trust in your own greatness, then at least know that I see it and have no doubt that you shall rise to overcome any challenge that is laid before you.’

  Gwion knew she could read him, and yes this was a test. Thus absorbing the guidance he’d just been given, he pushed aside his personal doubt, and in so doing, unburdened himself from the outcome, which he left to the will of the divine. ‘I trust I shall not disappoint you in this.’

  ‘That trust is not ill-founded. I have some preparation to do before our enterprise can begin, so take all the time you need. We shall commence our work and your education upon your return.’ Her approving smile gave him ease and permission to depart.

  It was heartbreaking to have to leave Castell Tegid so soon after his arrival. Creirwy had not come out to wave goodbye, and Gwion hoped his king was the cause and not himself. He’d not been given the chance to apologise for resenting her for not waking him for the sword rite – which he realised in retrospect was completely out of line. The Lady was not his keeper! He hadn’t specifically asked her to wake him – he’d just assumed she would. Yet, why had she not, when she knew he’d wished to be present? He doubted very much whether he could have warned the King away from accepting the cursed treasure, but perhaps someone didn’t want to even risk his attempt – like Gwyn ap Nudd? Keridwen owed him a debt; might this have been how he collected? Surely not. Gwion shook his head at the flaw in his reasoning – the Night Hunter would have to think him a huge threat to bother calling in Keridwen’s debt. No. This was his new-found pride talking and it was blowing the event way out of proportion.

  As they crossed the bridge that led to the lake shore from the island fortress, Gwion looked back to see the Lady Tegid standing on a rooftop walkway behind the stone ramparts – her silvery white hair flying on the breeze.

  Should he wave? Gwion switched hands on his reins to do so, only to find her disappearing inside. Damn horses! He’d never ridden before and was nervous and awkward. Fortunately, he was riding Keridwen’s favourite horse, whom the Goddess had instructed to take care of him. The horse’s name was Caston – due to his lovely chestnut colour.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve landed you in the bad books again.’ The King must have noted Gwion’s distraction, but if Owain did feel remorse, his delivery lacked sincerity.

  ‘No, Majesty,’ Gwion grimaced. ‘I believe this time the fault is entirely mine.’

  The King laughed this off, but again the delivery was less than sincere. ‘What on earth did you do, Gwion?’

  ‘I took the Lady for granted,’ he stated. ‘A mistake I shall not repeat.’ He maintained a straight face, but he had the young king wondering now. Maybe he was even a little jealous? It served Owain right, for making the same mistake so often.

  The rest of the party were getting ahead of them as they followed the road out of the Tegid valley; Gwion wasn’t up for riding at any kind of pace and the King, rather than maintaining the lead, fell back with him.

  ‘Do you have any clue why the Lady is so mad at me?’

  Gwion’s last statement had seemingly stirred up some of the young king’s guilt, in regard to the Lady Tegid, but he could have predicted this would be the topic for discussion. ‘Why do you care?’ Gwion had cause to wonder. ‘You have what you came for.’

  The young king was clearly affronted by th
e statement. ‘That does not sound like the advice of a spiritual counsellor?’

  ‘You admitted to me that you only saw the Lady as a gateway to the Otherworld; why continue to tease the girl?’

  ‘I do not particularly cherish the thought of having someone so powerful mad at me,’ the King defended. ‘I’m not teasing her, I wish only to make amends. No doubt, my advisers at home are already plotting a good marriage match for me, and I don’t want any ill-will with my Otherworldly allies.’

  ‘You fear she might curse your marriage to another?’ Gwion felt a great relief – for if the King were to marry another, he could have no further designs on Creirwy.

  ‘At this point, yes, I do.’ The King was as earnest as he could be. ‘So if you have any inkling of what I did to fall so quickly from favour, I would deeply appreciate being enlightened.’

  ‘You fell from her favour before I joined your company—’ Gwion was hesitant to give an uninformed view.

  ‘But you suspect . . .’ The King waved one hand in a circle, urging Gwion to voice his mind.

  ‘It has something to do with one of the covenants you made with the Night Hunter.’

  ‘I’ve made quite a few now, and have no memory of what I have bartered for his favours,’ Owain admitted. ‘But I would never make a deal that would affect anyone but me.’

  Gwion had a twinge of doubt about that.

  ‘Do you remember something I don’t?’ The King must have seen Gwion’s uneasiness.

  ‘No, it’s just an ill-feeling that I just can’t peg the exact reason for.’

  The King sat back in his saddle, a little disappointed. ‘I was the reason that Creirwy ended up in the service of the Night Hunter. She agreed to the appointment in order to secure me an audience; perhaps she now resents me for that?’

  ‘I would,’ Gwion replied honestly. ‘It is a long sentence for such a small favour – she must have cared for you very much.’