The Endless Knot

  “He is hurt inside,” the bard replied. “I cannot say.”

  These words were scarcely fallen from his lips when another call claimed our attention. “Penderwydd! Llew! Help! Come quickly!”

  We turned to see a warrior running toward us. “What is it, Pebin?” I called to him. “What has happened?”

  “Lord,” Pebin replied, “I went to the hall to take up my watch . . .” He paused, glancing around quickly. “You had better come at once.”

  5

  GOOD COUNSEL

  Iwill look after my father,” Cynan said. “Leave me.”

  “Take Cynfarch to my hut,” the bard ordered. “Sioned will tend him there.”

  Then Tegid, Pebin, and I threaded our way back toward the center of the crannog, passing knots of people hurrying to the site of the fire. The embers were still smoking and the ash still hot, but the cleanup was commencing. Those who had taken refuge on the shore were returning to begin the restoration.

  Crossing the bridge on the main pathway, we came to the cluster of low, round houses that sheltered in the shadow of the great hall. Except for the smell of smoke, which permeated everything in the fortress, the houses and hall were untouched by the fire. All appeared safe and secure.

  We moved quickly among the huts and across the yard separating them from the hall. “Stay here, Pebin,” I instructed the warrior. “Do not let anyone in.” Passing between the massive doorposts, I followed Tegid inside. Even in the dim light I could see that the iron stand had been overturned. The wooden chest bearing the Singing Stones was gone. Closer, I saw two figures huddled against the far west wall, and a third sprawled facedown on the bare earth floor. They did not stir as we entered.

  Approaching the nearest man, I stooped and shook him by the shoulder. When my jostling awoke no response, I rolled the man toward me. His head flopped loosely on his chest, and I knew he was dead.

  “One of the war band,” I said. I had seen the man before, but did not know his name.

  “It is Cradawc,” Tegid informed me, leaning near to see the man’s face.

  I lowered the body gently to the floor, cradling his neck in my hand so that his head would not strike the ground. My hand came away sticky and wet. A sick feeling spread through my gut as I looked at the dark substance on my hand. “The back of his head has been crushed,” I murmured.

  Tegid moved to the second man and pressed his fingertips against the man’s throat.

  “Dead?” I asked.

  He answered with a nod and turned at once to the third warrior.

  “This one as well?”

  “No,” Tegid answered. “This one still lives.”

  “Who is it?”

  Just then the man groaned and coughed.

  “It is Gorew. Help me get him outside.”

  Carefully, Tegid and I carried the body from the hall and laid it gently on the ground outside. Stretching his long fingers over the fallen warrior, Tegid turned Gorew’s head to the side. It was then that I saw the hideous blue-black bruise bulging like an egg on the side of his temple, above the right eye.

  The movement brought another moan. “Gorew,” Tegid said loudly, firmly.

  At the sound of his own name, the warrior’s eyes fluttered open. “Ahhh . . .” The groan was a whisper.

  “Rest and be easy,” Tegid told him. “We are here to help you.”

  “They are . . . gone,” Gorew said, his voice a faint rattle in his throat.

  “Who is gone?” Tegid asked, holding Gorew with his voice.

  “The stones . . .” the warrior answered. “Gone . . . stolen . . .”

  “We know, Gorew,” I replied. The injured warrior’s eyes fluttered.

  “Who did this to you?” I asked. “Who attacked you?”

  “I, ahh . . . saw someone . . . I thought . . .” Gorew sighed, and closed his eyes.

  “The name, Gorew. Give us the name. Who did this?” But it was no use; Gorew had lost consciousness once more.

  “We will learn nothing more for the moment,” Tegid said. “Let us carry him to my hut.”

  Pebin, staring down at Gorew, made no move, so I took his arm and directed him to help lift the wounded warrior. We carried Gorew to Tegid’s hut where Cynan and Bran were now waiting. Inside, Sioned, a woman much skilled in healing, was watching over the more badly injured. Sioned spread a cloak for him over a mat of straw, and we laid Gorew down beside Cynfarch. “I will tend him now,” she said.

  “Who would do this?” Pebin asked as we stepped from the hut.

  Who indeed, I wondered. Twenty dead so far—with more likely to follow—half the caer ruined, and the Singing Stones stolen. The damage was as severe as it was brutal. I determined to lay hands to the thieves before the sun set on this day.

  Summoning Bran and Cynan to me, I informed them of the theft. “The thieves set fire to the caer and used the resulting confusion to steal the Singing Stones. Gorew and the other guards were attacked and overpowered.”

  “The Treasure of Albion stolen?” Bran wondered. “And the guards?”

  “Two were killed outright; Gorew still lives. He may yet tell us something.”

  Cynan’s blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “He is a dead man who did this.”

  “Until we raise the trail, we do not know how many are involved.”

  “One man or a hundred,” Cynan muttered, “it is all the same to me.”

  “Bran,” I said, moving toward the hall, “raise the war band. We will begin the search at once.”

  The Chief Raven sped away, and Cynan and I began walking back toward the hall. As we came into the yard, the booming battle horn sounded, and a few moments later the Ravens began flocking to the call: Garanaw, Drustwn, Niall, Emyr, Alun. Scatha arrived too, and a few moments later Bran entered with a score of warriors. All gathered around the cold hearth.

  “We have been attacked by enemies,” I explained and told them about the assault during the fire. “So far, twenty are dead, and others are badly injured—Cynfarch and Gorew among them. The Singing Stones are stolen.” This revelation brought an instant outcry. “We will catch the men who did this,” I pledged, and my vow was echoed by a dozen more. “The search will begin at once.”

  I turned to Bran Bresal, my battle chief, leader of the Raven Flight. “Make ready to leave. We will ride as soon as the horses are saddled.”

  He hesitated, glancing quickly at Scatha; a look I could not read passed between them.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “It will be done as you say, lord,” Bran replied, touching the back of his hand to his forehead. Calling the war band to follow him, they hurried from the hall to attend to their various tasks, leaving Cynan and Scatha alone with me.

  “I am sorry, Cynan,” Scatha said, touching the brawny warrior on the arm.

  “The blood debt will be paid, Pen-y-Cat,” he replied quietly. “Never doubt it.” The pain bled raw in his voice.

  Turning to me, Scatha said, “I would serve you in this, lord. Allow me to lead the war band and capture the thieves.”

  “I thank you, Pen-y-Cat,” I declined, “but it is my place. You will serve better here. Tegid will need your help.”

  “Your place is here as well, Llew,” she persisted. “It is time for you to think beyond yourself to those who depend on you. You need rest,” Scatha suggested, pressing her point. “Stay here and rule your people.”

  Her words meant nothing to me. Rage flowed hot and potent through my veins, and I was in no mood for unraveling riddles. I saw but one thing clearly: the men who had practiced this outrage on me would be caught and judged. “A bath is all I need,” I grumbled. “The cold water will revive me.”

  Aching in every joint, I dragged myself back to my hut, intent on bathing and changing clothes before departing. I reeked of stale sweat and smoke; my hair was singed in a dozen places, and my breecs and buskins looked as if they had been attacked by flaming moths. Inside the hut, I paused only long enough to retrieve a change of clothes, a
chunk of the heavy tallow soap, and the strip of linen I used for a washcloth. I had started across the yard when Tegid emerged from his hut. I went to him.

  “Gorew may recover,” the bard said. “I will know more when he awakes.”

  “And Cynfarch?” I asked.

  “Death is strong, but Cynfarch may yet prove stronger,” the bard replied. “The battle will be decided before this day is done.”

  “Either way, I mean to have the thieves caught and the stones returned before this time tomorrow,” I said.

  “And you are thinking of going after them yourself ?” he asked pointedly.

  “Of course! I am the king. It is my duty.”

  The bard bristled at this and opened his mouth to object. I did not want to hear it, so I cut him off. “Save your breath, Tegid. I am leading the war band, and that is that.”

  Turning on my heel, I stalked away across the yard, through the gate, and out to the boat landing. At one end of the landing, the rock base of the crannog formed a shallow area many used as a bathing place. But there was no one else about.

  I stripped off my clothes and slipped into the water; the icy sting on my scorched hide felt like a balm. Sinking gratefully into the water, I floated, submerged except for my forehead and nose.

  The sun rose higher, burning through the thin gray mist while I busied myself with the soap. I washed my hair and scrubbed my skin raw with the cloth. When I lowered myself into the water to rinse, I felt like a snake sloughing off its old dead skin.

  I was shaking water from my hair when Goewyn arrived.

  “Scatha has told me what has happened,” she said. She stood on the landing above me with her arms crossed. Her face was smudged with soot, and her hair was tangled and powdered with ash. Her once-white mantle was leopard-spotted with black and brown burn marks.

  I almost salmon-leapt from the water for, until the moment I saw her again, I had completely forgotten that I was a married man now and had a wife waiting for me.

  “Goewyn, I am so sorry, I forgot that—”

  “She says you are planning to ride out,” she continued coldly. “If you care anything for your people, or what has happened here this night, you will not go.”

  “But I must go,” I insisted. “I am the king; it is my duty.”

  “If you are king,” she said, flinging each word separately for emphasis, “stay here and act like a king. Rule your people. Rebuild your stronghold.”

  “What of the Singing Stones? What of the thieves?”

  “Send your battle chief and warriors to bring them back. That is what a true king would do.”

  “It is my place,” I replied, moving toward her.

  “You are wrong. Your place is here with your people. You should not be seen chasing these—these cynrhon!” She used a word seldom used of another in Albion; I had never seen her so angry. “Are you above them?”

  “Of course, Goewyn, but I—”

  “Then show it!” she snapped. “Are these thieves kings that it takes a king to capture them?”

  “No, but—” I began and was quickly cut off.

  “Hear me, Llew Silver Hand: If you allow your enemy to prevent you from ruling, he is more powerful than you—and the whole of Albion will know it.”

  “Goewyn, please. You do not understand.”

  “Do I not?” she demanded and did not wait for my answer. “Will not Bran serve you with the last breath of his body? Will not Cynan move mountains at your word? Will not the Ravens seize the sun and stars to please you?”

  “Listen—if I am king at all, it is because the Singing Stones have made me so.”

  “You are not just another king. You are the Aird Righ! You are Albion. That is why you cannot go.”

  “Goewyn, please. Be reasonable.” I must have presented a forlorn spectacle standing up to my navel in cold water, shivering and dripping, for she softened somewhat.

  “Do not behave as a man without rank and power,” she said, and I began to see the shape of her logic. “If you are a king, my love, then be a king. Demonstrate your authority and might. Demonstrate your wisdom: send Bran and the Raven Flight. Yes. Send Cynan. Send Calbha and Scatha and a hundred warriors. Send everyone! But do not go yourself. Do not become the thing you seek to destroy.”

  “You sound just like Tegid,” I replied, attempting—clumsily—to lighten the mood. It seemed absurd for both of us to be angry.

  “Then you should listen to your wise bard,” she replied imperiously. “He is giving you good counsel.”

  Goewyn stood with her arms crossed over her breast, regarding me with implacable eyes, waiting for my reply. I was beaten and I knew it. She was right: a true king would never risk the honor of his sovereignty by chasing criminals across the kingdom.

  “Lady, I stand rebuked,” I said, spreading my hands. “Also I stand shivering and cold. I will do as you say, only let me come out of the water before I freeze.”

  “Far be it from me to prevent you,” she said, her lips curving ever so slightly at the corners.

  “So be it.” I took another step toward her, climbing from the water. She stooped and shook out the cloak, holding it out for me to step into.

  I turned my back to her, and she draped the cloak over my shoulders. Her hands traveled slowly down my back, and then her arms encircled my waist. I turned in her embrace, put my arms around her, and held her close. “You will get wet,” I told her.

  “I need a bath,” she replied, then realizing the truth of what she had said, at once pushed me away and held me at arm’s length.

  “I have washed,” I protested.

  “But I have not.” She withdrew a quick step.

  “Wait—”

  “Come home, husband,” she called, “but not until you have told Tegid that you are staying in Dinas Dwr and not until you have sent the Raven Flight to work your will.”

  “Goewyn, wait, I will go with you—”

  “I will be waiting, husband,” she called, disappearing through the gate.

  I pulled on my breecs, stuffed my arms into the sleeves of the siarc, snatched up my buskins, and hurried back to Tegid’s hut to inform him of my change of plan.

  6

  CYNAN TWOTORCS

  I called Tegid from his hut. He emerged looking hunched and old; his dark hair was gray with ash, and his face seemed just as colorless. His eyes were bloodshot from smoke and exhaustion. He must have been dead on his feet. I instantly felt guilty for taking a bath, leaving everyone else to do the work.

  “Wise Bard,” I said, “I have changed my mind. I am staying in Dinas Dwr. I will send Bran and the Raven Flight to capture the thieves and bring back the Singing Stones.”

  “A prudent decision, lord,” Tegid said, nodding with narrow satisfaction.

  “Yes, so I am told.”

  Emyr Lydaw hailed me just then and came running to say that the war band was ready. “Assemble at the landing,” I commanded. “Tegid and I will join you there.”

  “Come,” I told Tegid, taking him by the arm and leading him toward the hall, “we will eat something before we join them. The king and his bard must not be seen to swoon with hunger.”

  Tegid declared himself well satisfied with this sentiment—it showed I was beginning to think like a king. We stopped long enough for a loaf and a drink of the sweetened water leftover from the wedding feast. Thus refreshed, we made our way to the landing.

  The Ravens, singed and bedraggled from the night’s ordeal, were loading the last of their provisions into the boats. Cynan stood a few paces apart, a spear in each hand, staring at the water. Alun and Drustwn greeted me as we approached. Bran turned from the task to say, “All is ready, lord. We await your command.”

  “I am needed here—I will not accompany you. And you do not require my help to capture these low criminals,” I explained. “I charge you to do this work swiftly and return with all haste.”

  Bran, somewhat relieved by my change of plan, replied, “I hear and will obey, lord.” r />
  Cynan, his jaw hard and his brow set in a lethal scowl, said nothing, but stared away across the lake to the strand where Niall and Garanaw waited with the horses. “Good hunting, brother,” I told him.

  He nodded curtly and climbed into one of the boats. The others joined him, and the boats pushed away from the landing. We bade them farewell then, and the boats withdrew. The oarsmen had not pulled three strokes, however, when the woman Sioned appeared at the gate.

  “Penderwydd!” she called and came running when she saw him.

  “What is it, Sioned?” Tegid turned to meet her, gray eyes quick with concern.

  “He is dead,” she said hastily. “King Cynfarch has died, Penderwydd. Eleri is with him. He just stopped breathing and—that was all.”

  Tegid made to hurry away; he took two quick steps, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder toward the departing boats. He opened his mouth to speak, but I spoke first. “Go,” I told him. “I will tell Cynan.”

  While the Chief Bard hastened toward the gate, I called the boats back. “Cynan,” I said when he was close enough to hear, “it is your father.”

  He saw the figures of Tegid and the woman hurrying away, and he guessed the worst. “Is my father dead?”

  “Yes, brother. I am sorry.”

  At my words, Cynan stood upright in the boat, rising so suddenly that he almost tipped it over. As soon as the oarsmen brought the vessel near the landing, Cynan leapt from the boat and started toward the gate.

  I caught him as he passed. “Cynan, I am sending the Raven Flight without you.”

  His face darkened and he started to protest, but I held firm. “I know how you feel, brother, but you will be needed here. Your people are without a king now. Your place is with them.”

  He glanced away, the conflict hot within. “Let them go, Cynan,” I urged. “It is for Bran to serve me in this. It is for us to stay.”

  Cynan’s eyes flicked from mine to the boat and back again. Without a word he turned and hurried away.

  From the boat Bran called, “Would you have us wait for him, lord?”