Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

  “What of Pelleas?”

  “There was no sign of him. We bore Myrddin to the Tor at Ynys Avallach, and then I went back to continue the search…I found never a trace of Pelleas.

  “Still, I searched. From Llyonesse I travelled to Gorre—that diseased cluster of islands in the south. I found nothing there, but learned of a Fair Folk settlement in Armorica. I sailed to Less Britain and sojourned with Ban. The settlement I sought was near his realm, I was told; but if so, it was no longer there. I travelled into Gaul and came into the court of Clovis, where I met Bishop Sepulcius and was baptized a Christian.

  “My search has availed me nothing,” Gwalcmai concluded sadly.

  “I would not say so,” I told him. “The Emrys said that you left to find Pelleas and found God instead.”

  Gwalcmai laughed. “Oh, he is wise indeed. Yes, that is what happened in the end, I suppose. That is why I stayed so long with Sepulcius—I felt that my life had purpose when I was with him. And since King Clovis depended on that saintly man, I stayed to help him. The Ffreincs are even more contentious than the British—believe that, if you will.”

  “You have spoken of Pelleas,” I said. “But what of Morgian?”

  “I was coming to that.” Gwalcmai grew somber once more. “She is the one who blinded Myrddin and left him to die in Llyonesse.”

  “What!”

  “It is God’s truth I am telling you.”

  “But how?” I could not imagine anyone besting the Exalted Emrys, Chief of Bards of the Island of the Mighty.

  “She is a Fair Folk enchantress, a Fair Folk witch, most powerful and dire. She is evil itself, and potent as death.” He spoke with such vehemence, I turned to him in wonder.

  “You know her well?”

  “Aye,” he said ruefully, “I know her well enough to wish that I did not.”

  “You said she had come here. We have not heard of it.”

  “I said her trail led north,” he corrected. “I do not think she would come here—at least not yet. I think she is in the north, in Ynysoedd Erch, perhaps.”

  “Lot’s realm—your father’s.”

  “Perhaps,” he allowed warily. “But there are other places she would be welcome. Wherever Arthur has an enemy, or someone wishes Myrddin ill—there will she find a friend.”

  “She wishes Arthur harm?”

  “She wishes all men harm, lad. Never forget it. And never let anyone tell you different. Listen well…I know whereof I speak: Morgian is poison; she is a viper, a demon in human form. And she is bent on destruction.”

  We walked back to the palace then. I went about my duties and could not help thinking of all that Gwalcmai had told me. Time and again I returned to his words, and the sense of evil foreboding grew in me through the day. I sensed doom in the sun-bright air of Caer Lial, and I could nowise perform my duties satisfactorily. I had no one else to share my burden with to make it lighter. I labored on in misery.

  Yet, we are not made to suffer long. We forget. In a few days the stifling sense of doom and suffocation left me, and I began to think of other things again. The sky did not fall, the earth did not swallow me, the sea did not rise up and whelm over Britain. I lost interest in Morgian and her schemes, and thought of other concerns. Foremost among these the fact that the Emrys chose me to go with him to the shrine. Arthur wished to hold the first Council of the Round Table—those trusted companions whose names were carved in the walls of the rotunda—and we were to go on ahead to make all ready.

  The prospect of returning there, just the Emrys and I, filled me with pleasure. Fine as the palace was, I loved the bare rotunda more. Its solitude appealed to me. My spirit was at peace there. Peace, I have learned, is rare in this worlds-realm, and highly to be prized.

  5

  I know little of what passed at the Council of the Round Table. Those in attendance—Bedwyr and Cai, of course, Bors, Gwalchavad, Cador, Llenlleawg, Idris, and the Emrys—were Arthur’s truest companions. These were the first. Others would be added in time as good men were drawn to Arthur’s court.

  Each day for three days the lords held council with the High King. Each night for three nights they supped together and the Emrys sang. One of the songs he sang was The Vision of Taliesin, also called The Song of the Summer Realm.

  I count myself forever blessed to have heard it.

  On the third day of the council, Gwalcmai arrived. Whether he had been summoned, or whether he came of his own volition, I still do not know. But he appeared at midday, greeted me, and made his way to the shrine. He knelt at its entrance, prayed, and then was allowed to enter. I picketed his horse with the others and waited to see what would happen.

  In a little, he emerged, alone, and walked down the hill. He moved quickly, like a man with an important duty he must discharge. I learned later that Gwalcmai had been invited to become a member of the Round Table and have his name carven with those of the others. But since he had not fought in the wars against the barbarians, he must perform some other deed of great service to God, the Pendragon, and Britain.

  This deed was to be of his own choosing. When it was finished, he could return and come before the Pendragon with proof of its completion. If judged by the others as worthy, he would be admitted to their number.

  That is why, when he rode away that day, I saw the steely glint of determination in his eye. I think he already knew what he would do to win his place in the Shrine of the Round Table.

  On the morning of the council’s fourth day, the High King and his companions departed. The Emrys and I stayed at the shrine, however, for the Emrys wanted some time alone to himself.

  That night we sat together at the fire and ate our meal. I said, “I wonder how the Hill Folk know when we are here?” For the food had begun appearing once more as soon as Arthur and the others had gone.

  “There is not much that happens in the land that they do not know.”

  “Why do they bring it?”

  “It is their way of honoring me. Kentigern, they call me. Do you know the word?”

  I shook my head. “No—should I?”

  The Emrys regarded me sadly for a moment. “There is so much passing away,” he said heavily. “The Summer Realm blooms, and the old world must make way.”

  He was silent for a time. I watched his face in the light of the dancing fire. He was old, though he did not look it. Long had he gathered wisdom in this worlds-realm, and its weight was becoming a burden to him.

  By way of lightening the mood, I said, “I saw one of the Hill Folk last time.”

  “Last time?” The Emrys glanced up, his golden eyes glinting in the firelight.

  “When I was here—after you left with Tegyr and Bedwyr. I was alone, and I saw one of them when he brought the food. He came up to the shrine and stood in the doorway for a moment, then left. He probably thought we had all departed, and he wanted to see the shrine. He did not come inside though, and it was dark. He did not see me.”

  Myrddin Emrys stared at me long and hard. “You did not tell me this before—why?” he demanded at last.

  Aghast, I said, “It was of no importance. Nothing happened. He left the food and disappeared. I did not see him again. Why? Have I done wrong?”

  “It is not your fault—you could not know.”

  “Know what?” I said, my voice rising indignantly. “What have I done?”

  “Has it never occurred to you that the Hill Folk would not bring food if they thought you had gone?”

  His question pricked me. I felt the hot blood rise to my face and was grateful for the ruddy glow of the firelight to hide my shame.

  “Well?”

  “I suppose not,” I answered sullenly; he spoke the truth and I knew it well.

  “No, they would not. If they brought the food, they knew you were still here. Knowing that, they would not have allowed you to see them.” The Emrys paused, then softened. “Well, it was probably nothing, as you say.”

  My heart beat against my ribs, telling me tha
t it was not nothing. There was a deeper matter here than I had yet been told. “If it was not one of the Hill Folk,” I said, “who was it?”

  “I cannot say.” The Emrys turned his face away abruptly.

  “Morgian?” I said, little knowing what I asked.

  The Emrys whipped toward me. “Why do you speak that name?”

  I stared back at him, horrified. “Forgive me! I do not know what made me say it.” That was God’s own truth—the name just leapt from my tongue.

  The Emrys’ golden eyes narrowed. “Perhaps,” he said slowly. “Or it may be there is another reason.” His tone was deeply forbidding.

  “What do you mean, Wise Emrys?” I asked, frightened of the answer.

  He stared into the fire, gazing at the embers glowing cherry-red in its flaming heart. What he saw did not cheer him. “I mean,” he said at last, “that I fear you have guessed aright—if guess it was.”

  Nothing more was said all night. We slept, and awoke the next morning to a thin rain. The rain lingered most of the day, clearing at last toward evening. The Emrys and I went about our work and emerged only at dusk, when the clouds parted and the sun began to gild the hills and sea with fine white gold.

  “Aneirin!” Myrddin Emrys called to me from the hilltop. I stood below him at the stream, filling the water jars for the night. “Do you want to see the bhean sidhe? Come here.”

  I hurried with the jars and hastened up the hill. “Go into the shrine and stay there until I summon you.”

  I did as I was bade, and the Emrys cupped his hands to his lips and made a whistling call that sounded like waves rolling stones on the shingle. He made it again and waited, standing perfectly still. In a moment I heard an answering call, identical to the one he gave. Myrddin Emrys replied to it in kind, and out from the thickets at the edge of the stream stepped two young boys, slender and brown as willow wands, carrying between them the bundle of food.

  The two ran quick as shadows up the hill and approached the shrine. The foremost of the two crept close and placed the food bundle on the ground; he took the Emrys’ right hand in both of his and kissed it. The other did likewise, and they began to talk. I understood nothing of their speech—it sounded to me less like human utterance than anything I had ever heard. It was all rushing wind and rustling leaves; the hissing of snakes and the buzzing of bees and the gurgle of falling water.

  After they had spoken for a time, the Emrys turned to the shrine and held his hand to it. The two Hill Folk glanced at one another and nodded. “You can come out, Aneirin,” he called. “They will allow you to see them.”

  I stepped slowly from the doorway of the rotunda and proceeded down the steps. It was only when I came to stand beside the Emrys that I realized our visitors were not children, but mature men. Men full-grown, yet they were smaller than I!

  They stood regarding me with bright curiosity, and I them. They wore short, sleeveless tunics made of leather and birds’ wings. Their trousers were soft sheepskin; their boots were the same. They carried small wooden bows, and each had a quiver of short arrows at his belt. They wore necklaces of tiny yellow shells, and each had a thick ring of gold around his arm. Tiny blue slashes, three over each cheek—their fhain marks—distinguished them as Salmon Fhain. Their hair and eyes were deep and black as polished jet; their skins were brown and creased as their tunics.

  The Emrys spoke a word to them and I heard my name, whereupon the two smiled. The foremost one thumped himself on the chest and said, “Rei.” He repeated this until I said it, whereupon the second one presented himself, saying, “Vranat.”

  I said my name for them and they repeated it, only they said, “Nee-rin,” and laughed as if this was a most splendid jest. Then they grew suddenly serious and began speaking to the Emrys once more, earnestly, one after the other with some urgency. This entreaty lasted only a moment. Myrddin made some answer to them and they departed, each kissing the Emrys’ hand before turning and racing away. They were gone in an instant.

  “There,” said Myrddin Emrys, “now you have seen the Hill Folk. Is there any doubt?”

  I knew what he was saying. “None,” I replied. “Even in the dark I would know the difference—the one I saw was not like these at all.”

  The Emrys turned and began walking down the hill to the sea. I followed, and we walked together a goodly while. It was cooler near the water, and the smell of seaweed and salt filled my nostrils. The sound of the waves washing back and forth over the sand soothed my troubled spirit. “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “We will do what is required of us.”

  “How will we know what that is?”

  “All is given in its season. All that is needful is granted. We have but to ask, and if our hearts are in the asking it will be granted.”

  “Always?”

  “You are full of questions, boy,” the Wise Emrys chuckled. “No, not always. We serve at the Gifting God’s pleasure. In him we move and have our being; in him we live both here and in the world to come. If anything is withheld from us, it is for the reason of a greater good to come.”

  “Always?”

  This time the Emrys became adamant. “Oh, aye! Always. Goodness is ever good, and the All-Wise God is a good God. From him goodness itself derives its meaning.”

  “So, even if evil overtakes us, it is still for the greater good,” I said, trying to understand this philosophy.

  The Emrys accepted my foolish answer, but corrected it gently. “That is one way to say it, but perhaps not the best way. To see evil and call it good mocks God. Worse, it makes goodness meaningless. A word without meaning is an abomination, for when the word passes beyond understanding, the very thing the word stands for passes out of the world and cannot be recalled.

  “This is a great and subtle truth, Aneirin. Think on it.”

  I did, but could make no headway. “But,” I said, returning to the former discussion, “if the Holy God is good and yet evil overtakes me, what am I to say?”

  “Only say, ‘Evil has overtaken me.’ God did not wish it, but being God he can use even that which is evil and meant for evil and turn it to good end. It is his labor in the world, and ours, to raise up the fallen and to turn the evil into good.”

  This surprised me. “Because your sight was restored?”

  “No,” he replied. “Because it was not.”

  Now I was confused. The Emrys saw me struggling with this and said, “It is because you do not believe that you do not understand.”

  “But I want to understand.”

  “Then hear me: God is good; his gifts are granted each in its own season, and according to his purpose. I endured blindness that I might discern the subtle ways of Darkness, and treasure Light the more. When I learned this truth, it pleased God to restore my sight—which he did in time.”

  I knew that all this had something to do with Morgian, but I could not think how. The Emrys talked like a priest instructing his flock. I knew the words he spoke to be true, but the truths they revealed were too deep for me then. That, or else I was a vessel too shallow. I cannot say which.

  That night when we ate our meal before the fire, Myrddin Emrys told me of his time with the Hill Folk—how he had become separated from his people, lost, and found by the bhean sidhe of Hawk Fhain; how he had almost been sacrificed; how he had learned their ways, and the lore of their Gern-y-fhain, the clan’s Wise Woman.

  As he told me of his life, I began to understand the meaning of his words: so much is passing away. It was clear to me that the world I knew was much changed from the one he described—and was still changing rapidly in almost every way.

  Behold! The Summer Realm blooms and the old world must make way. Peace! So be it!

  * * *

  We left the shrine a few days later and returned to Caer Lial. The Pendragon’s court was busy with the affairs of Britain now that the High King was in residence. A steady stream of lords and landholders passed through the Pendragon’s hall and chambers.

>   Priests and holymen came before him with petitions of need. The High King established churches, founded holy orders, and granted land to monasteries. Queen Gwenhwyvar aided this work with zeal. With her own resources and out of her own wealth, she planted seeds of righteousness and nurtured good works of every kind. She was formidable in virtue, and fierce in piety. She was dauntless in love. No less a warrior than Arthur, she battled wickedness and ignorance, never granting quarter.

  I watched all, heard all, and remembered all—hiding it away in my memory like treasure, as it seemed right to do. I talked long with Bedwyr, who became my friend. Bedwyr had the soul of a bard and the memory of a druid. Often we began to talk of an evening and rose to find dawn’s ruby rays stealing into the hall.

  Cai and I also became friends, and he aided me as he could. But Cai’s unquestioning loyalty made it difficult to discover what actually happened in the battles. “Well,” he would say, “Arthur is Arthur, yes? He is the Bear. No one like him in battle—who can stand against him?” This would suffice for an entire campaign!

  Two more councils were held at the Round Table shrine that year: one at the autumnal equinox, and the other at the winter solstice, just before the Christ Mass. I did not attend the former of these, but at the latter I served my customary function in caring for the horses.

  I spent three cold, wet days at a crackling fire below the rotunda hill with the wild wind blowing snow off the sea. When the others emerged from the council at last, I was near frozen. They came out singing into the winter squall, their voices loud and joyous. I knew something important had taken place. I spared no time finding out.