Morgan was uncharacteristically restless tonight, though that was scarce unexpected. On the morrow, her brother and King, her husband and very many of her dearest friends were leaving Keltia on a dark errand from which they might well never return. No surprise that the dubhachas had come upon her…
For myself, I confess I felt a shameful elation. Oh, I was as distraught as my lady at our parting, make no mistake; but there was a not inconsiderable piece of me that was secretly thrilled to be on the war-trail again with Artos the Bear. Though it was not so much 'Bear' these days, as it had been at Llwynarth—Arthur now bore as his arms the crimson dragon from which the Pendreics had their name, though he stubbornly kept his foster-father's name, and used alternately the arms of Gwynedd and the arms of the House of Don, as did his co-ruler… I shook myself. Heraldry, while my wife paced up and down the tiny terrace like a caged lioness, and in the next tower over the Ard-rian of Keltia was doubtless little calmer of heart…
Morgan seemed to have reached her goal, for the pacing suddenly stopped and she stood quite still. Then all at once she vanished into our bedchamber, returning a few minutes later with a silver-bound leather casket that I had not seen before.
"A wedding gift?" I teased; the leather was worn and papery with age in places, the deep chasing of the silver hasps rubbed almost smooth.
"Strangely enough, that is exactly right…" She set the thing down on a bench in a little niche against the western wall, and opened it carefully.
I craned to look inside. Only some scraps of worn velvet—then Morgan turned back the velvet and lifted out what lay inside, and I gasped.
It caught the sunset light and blazed like firegold in her hands,—but it was silver, and of far more ancient workmanship than the hasps that had bound its receptacle. Carved and incised with symbols even I as Druid and bard could not decipher, knotwork panels framing cut stones, round studs of rock crystal, clear and cold as snow-melt off the Stair…
"What is it?" I breathed. "Whence came it, who gave it you?"
"It is the marriage-gift of Nia the Golden," said Morgan in a voice hushed as my own. "The Sidhe gave it to her, and she gave it to Brendan, and so it has come down to us. Birogue and Gwyn bestowed it on us when we wed."
"I do not think so!" I said incredulously. "I think I had remembered that!"
She smiled and tilted the lovely thing in her hands, so that the light flared and ran along it.
'Even so, Talyn… This is our tinnscra from those who dwell in Glenshee—ours in truth, yours as much as mine."
I reached out a tentative finger to brush the silver, then, much emboldened, rested my first two fingers on the center stone—larger than the other crystals, faceted antiquely, there was something different about it…
"I wish you to take it with you on the creagh-righ," said Morgan then. Hearing my immediate protest, "Nay, none of that, Talyn, I am in no mood for it! You may have need of it where you are going, and for my part it is my best assurance that you will come back to me."
Her vehemence silenced me, and for a few moments I did not look at her but only at the fillet—cathbarr, is the old word for such a thing.
"It will never fit me," I said presently, and at that Morgan laughed.
"You think so? Come—" She took up the fillet in both hands, and I bent my head as she raised it up and set it around my brows. I felt the cool touch of the silver, smooth and light and utterly comfortable. Then Morgan had lifted it off, and set it upon her own head; and it fitted her as closely and conformably as it had fitted me. I took a little sharp breath at the awe of the thing.
"It was made by one who knew how to take a measure," she said quietly. "He made it to fit, and he made it to last… Though women wear it most and best, men too have borne it on their brows; and this is not the first time it has been given in protection at parting, nor will it be the last."
"But such a treasure—"
"You are the treasure, Pen-bardd"—I startled at that, for never had I told Morgan of that name Elphin had prophesied for me so long ago—"and, had you forgotten, you are a prince of Keltia, full fit to wear greater relics than this."
"I think little can be greater than this," I said humbly, and bent my head again for her to place the cathbarr upon me. "But to look after so valuable a thing, on the war-trail—"
She smiled. "It will look after itself, I think you will find; it has a way of staying hidden, and will add not a crossic's weight to your pack… But let me look at you."
She turned me to face into the sunset, stood before me gazing up into my face. What she saw there I know not—my love for her, my fears for Keltia, my resolve and pledge to Arthur, very like, for I saw all these in her own face as she looked up at me—but Nia's fillet was upon me, and I Saw suddenly, the years that would lie between us before I lay again with her… But I said no word, and no more did she; and we stood so until the sun had gone, and then we went within.
* * *
* * *
Chapter Twenty
IN THE END OUR GOING was not so bravely taken: It was, as Arthur insisted every chance he got, a workaday expedition, a punishment, not a riding for vaunt or show—there would be no grand send-off with pipes and drums and banners. To that end, then, he had assembled a hand-picked band of professional captains, and they in turn had chosen their war parties. The muster that met on the plains below Caerdroia was purposeful and single-minded; for we went to chastise those who had made war upon us in the hire of Edeyrn, and to discourage them from repeating that mistake.
Therefore our success would lie in secrecy and speed, not in numbers; indeed, we sailed in one ship, only one. But such a one … Now Carnwen, Arthur's flagship for the invasion, had been destroyed with all the other craft, burned in space. So in one of his first acts as Ard-righ, Arthur had ordered built a new ship to be his own.
Prydwen was it called, 'Fairface', or 'White Shield' in the bardic speech—a name that carried both protection and implication. It held some three hundred warriors, a manageable war-band, yet sufficient to accomplish our purposes—we were not intending invasion, after all, only strike-and-run raidings, merely to remind outworlders that Keltia's fist was still mailed, no matter that the hand within belonged now to another.
Strangely enough, the folk supported Arthur in this thing—I and others had thought—hoped, even—they would not, had cherished a vain dream that the people would rise up as one and require their King to remain at home. But this did not happen: They seemed as eager as Arthur himself to work a bit of requital upon the gallain, and they cheered us off like heroes, though it would be other wise upon our return. But you shall see.
So we set out from Tara on the feast of Fionnasa, an omenable day, which auspicious nature was not lost on any; and steered course first of all for the other planets of Keltia, to look in on matters there. No surprises: The Fainne had taken up its old authority, the planetary lords had resumed their old jurisdictions—at least, the loyal ones had. Those who had cast their lot with the Marbh-draoi had been removed, one way or another, and new chieftains of our choosing—well, Arthur's and Gweniver's choosing—set in their places. Not, perhaps, always without strife and difficulty; but by now pretty near all had seen whose hand was on Keltia's bridle, and those who fought against the bit were reined in speedily and firmly.
The last place we stopped was Erinna, to bid farewell to Grehan's Aoibhell kindred, restored to their ancient princedom of Thomond; our old Companion's father, Durric, met us with Fidais, his Princess, and feasted us royally before we took ship again next morning and headed out past the orbit of that planet's three moons.
Once past Banbha, the outmost satellite, we were into space proper; technically outside our Keltic borders, for Erinna is the fifth and final planet of that system. I stood at the helm viewport and stared ahead into the starry dark; not yet was I brave enough to look behind me to the stars I so loved. After a while, Arthur came up beside me, put his arm through mine and followed my gaze outward.
I cut my glance sidewise to his face: He had that old look I knew so well, of a questing hound that scents new airs, new hunting lands, new quarry up ahead. And I was both heartened and dismayed to see it…
"We have left Keltia," he said then. "None of our race has been out among these stars since first we came here, maybe. And it is we, Talyn, we three hundred, who go so."
"Aye?" I said flatly. "Ard-righ?"
He grinned and shook his head. "You have used that voice on me since we were five years old; do you not know by now how it never works?"
"Oh, sometimes it has been known to do so, no matter your protests to the contrary." I was silent a while, staring out at the rolling heavens. "Where do you have us sail? Or do we just go stravaiging round all the known worlds until we die?"
"Well, now, if you had looked at the charts and maps Grehan and Tari and the others drew up for us, you had had no need to ask… But since you ask, I will tell you we go first to pay a call of courtesy on our nearest adversaries."
"Those would be the Fir Bolg—"
"They would be, and their home planet of Kaireden is—see, Talyn, it is over there. We have only to go."
It sounded simple enough; but then, everything ever sounded simple enough when Arthur said it. I know what you are thinking; and you are of course right in thinking so—I should have known better than to be taken in so featly by my brother's honey words. And, as a rule, I say in my own defense, I was seldom so snared. But as we stood there, looking out upon stars no Kelt had seen since Brendan's day, I was suddenly seized by the riachtanas, what bards call 'memory's grasp,' the demanding recollection that surges to the forefront of one's awareness will you or nill you…
And what I was remembering was a thing Merlynn had told us, Arthur and me, back in our Coldgates days: a thing we had not understood in the least when he had pronounced it, and which had lain, in the manner of such memories, sleeping and silent, until its time had come to be remembered.
We had been discussing a magic Merlynn had performed at Arthur's importuning—nothing of significance, just a small pishogue—and then Merlynn had suddenly gone away from us as he sat there before us in his great chair. A brief journey: half a minute there, half a minute back again. We had stared at him, a little fearfully, and then he had looked straight through us both as if our bodies had been glass.
"When the last battle comes, you shall take the treasures with you from Keltia," he had said, in the most terrifying voice I had ever heard. "And though most of what Arthur wills shall be won, it shall be for another to complete the work, another's dan to bring them home."
And Arthur had leaned forward then, as he leaned forward now, straining sight and Sight alike to see his future. "How shall this other know of us, athro, and of these treasures you speak of?"
Merlynn's gaze, that had been set for distance, lengthened beyond all measure, and I shrank back, suddenly cold, for I knew what he would say.
"Gwyn shall give the word. The Sidhe do not forget."
I had shivered with the awe of it, as indeed I shivered now in remembering, and had met Arthur's eyes, and each of us knew in that moment the other's thought: Gwyn son of Nudd, prince under the hill, lord of the Shining Folk. We had not yet come to know him at the time of this pronouncing of Merlynn's, and when we did, the memory had chosen not to be revived; but now, as Arthur and I stood arm in arm and Prydwen beneath us ran on to our reiving's first meed, it came rising up out of the past like a ship out of deep water.
"Nay," said Arthur then, his eyes still on the stars. "Not yet, not now. Another time. We shall see it, you and I, and some of these who sail with us today. It will come."
And he said no word more that day.
The sail to Kaireden was uneventful, the raids we made on the Fir Bolg manufacturing outposts—little planetoids, a space station or two—more successful than we had any right to expect. We struck fast and hard, as we were wont to, and were gone before any counter could be launched against us.
I had had my doubts until that moment about the wisdom of our entire venture—what if the gallain nations we struck at took this not as retribution for prior damage but provocation to war? We were well enough set up at home to turn back chance raids, or even a civil uprising or two; but we were not in posture to throw off a determined invasion, and these peoples we now went against were fighters for hire, their swords never far from their hands.
Arthur listened gravely to my litany of doubts, as he had ever done since our boyhood; but when at last I ran out of fuel, and came to an uncertain stammering stop, he smiled and nodded slowly.
"I take the point, Talyn," he said. "But you see how easily Kaireden was breached—too easily, you think. Well, perhaps; but do not forget, Edeyrn chose gallain mercenaries not so much for their skill and heaviness of hand as for their cheapness. The Fir Bolg are worthy enough fighters, as we Kelts know from of old, but they are not wont to strike back after such a strike as ours; they will be resentful and ill-disposed, they may even seek to ambush our vessels once we have re-established trade with the outworlds, but they will be cowed by today's work. They are not, after all, the Coranians, you know!"
"And thank all gods for that!" put in Betwyr, who had been listening with an expression that grew more and more distraught as we talked.
Arthur favored him with a quick smile, but said no more, and the others who lounged round the common-room for this casual war parley turned to other matters. I looked at them with the eye of friendship: Companions almost to a one—not only Betwyr but Daronwy, Ferdia, Alannagh Ruthven who had wrought so well for us on Tara, Tanwen Farrach, many of our oldest Companions from the Gwynedd days, many more of newer kindred-in-arms, who had proved themselves on every world of Keltia in the fight against the Marbh-draoi. We were well accompanied, Arthur and I… And yet we had left at home friends as dear and warriors as accomplished: Grehan and Tarian, above all, to work beside Gweniver; Elphin my old teacher, Tryffin, Keils, Scathach, Elen, Berain—the Company was there, too. And that was to prove well for us all, in the end…
But for now the reiving went most smoothly: True to Arthur's assessment, the Fir Bolg—the name means Folk of the Belly, a childish taunting nickname, they were a tough race and deserved better—came not after us, nor visited Keltia with punitive raidings, but merely withdrew within their borders to lick their wounds and hope for vengeance to come. It never did, at least not against us; but that was not ours to fret about, for we had now greater matters to occupy us…
"The Fomori," repeated Alannagh, expelling the word on a long sigh of disbelief.
"They did more harm to us in the fight for Tara than all Edeyrn's other hired help combined," said Tanwen flatly. She but stated the obvious, as all there well knew; indeed, I would even say 'understated.' The Fomori were at the time of which I speak the greatest mercenaries in the known worlds: We knew them, too, from of old: Brendan had had some savage dealings with them in his day, and down the centuries our paths—and our swords—had crossed with theirs more times than a few.
"But a raid on Fomor itself—" protested someone at the back of the common-room; a newer Companion, one not so well used as the rest of us to Arthur's little ways.
Ferdia and I exchanged looks full of meaning and memories, but did not speak up. That was for Arthur to do, and just now he was not yet ready to do so.
I looked at him nonetheless. The Ard-righ of Keltia was sitting on his spine in the chair he favored at such meetings, halfway down the far side of the long table. As was his custom, he wore the same plain brown uniform as the rest of us, the flightsuit of the Fianna,—only his was undifferenced by any mark of rank or standing. Well, when one is High King one can afford to be modest, I thought; and heard in my mind Arthur’s inner shout of laughter. I blushed—I had not known I was sending—but remained unrepentant as Arthur straightened, the faint grin on his face echoing his mental mirth, and leaned forward to end the debate.
"Only a raid," he said, and laughed at the massive disbelie
f he saw registered upon our faces, for we had all heard that song from him many times before… "Nay, truly! You shall see." He called out the holomaps in the center of the table: Fomor spun in black space, ringed by its six moons. Arthur's light-pen touched the second outermost.
"That is the one to beware of," he said. "It is Launius, their chief defense against outworld invasion." He touched a keypad, and data began to flow across our placescreens: armaments, weaponry, strength both offensive and defensive. I was not best pleased at what I saw, and said so.
Arthur shrugged. "King Nanteos has become lax these days; or so the spies have told us. He has approved a manufacturing colony on this small moon here"—the light-pen flicked out, then pointed at a most hospitable-looking planetoid, third out from Fomor.
I could scarcely believe it. "It is Talgarth all over again!" I shouted, ignoring the baffled looks on the faces of some of our newer Companions.
"Aye, and well, what if it is?" said Arthur equably. "We came cleanly away from Talgarth with what we needed, then…"
I waited him out; it took more than a minute, but in the end he capitulated.
"Well, then, it is not like Talgarth, not entirely. We will make a diversionary raid on this moon—Meroke—but our main thrust will be at Fomor itself. There is a thing I would reive away, that might be of use to us to haggle a treaty."
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. "And what might that be, Ard-righ?" I asked, very carefully, for already I had a fairly good idea.
Arthur waited until I was looking at him again before he spoke, and even then he kept silence a beat longer.
'King Nanteos his own self."
Just so… I said nothing, for it seemed there was nothing to be said; but the others in the room found quite a lot to say, and it took the best part of ten minutes before they fell silent again. Or for the most part: Daronwy was still furious, and I leaned back with interest to watch her battle it out with Arthur.
The Oak above the Kings Page 24
