The Silver Hand

  Gazing upon the faces of all those gathered on the slopes of the Cnoc Righ, I wondered who among them could wear the torc Meldryn Mawr had left behind. Who could wear the oak-leaf crown? There were good men among us, fine and strong, chieftains who could lead in battle—but a king is more than a war leader.

  Who is worthy to be king? I thought. Ollathir, my teacher and my guide, what would you have me do? Speak to me, old friend, as you did in former times. Give your filidh benefit of your sage wisdom. I wait on your word, Wise Counselor. Instruct me in the way that I should go . . .

  But Ollathir was dead, like so many of Prydain’s proud sons, his voice but an echo fading in the memory. Alas, his awen had passed out of this worlds-realm, and I must find my way alone. Very well, I thought, turning to my task at last. I am a bard, and I can do all that a true bard can do.

  I placed a fold of my cloak over my head and raised my staff high. “Son of Tegvan, son of Teithi, son of Talaryant, a bard and the son of bards, I am Tegid Tathal. Listen to me!”

  I spoke boldly, knowing there were some who would rather I remained silent. “Most mournful of men am I, for the lord who upheld me has been wickedly killed. Meldryn Mawr is dead. And I see nothing before me but death and darkness. Our shining son is stolen from us. Our king lies stiff and cold in his turf house, and treachery sits in the place of honor.

  “It is the Day of Strife! Let all men look to the edge of the sword for their protection. The Paradise War is begun; the sound of warfare will be heard in the land as Ludd and Nudd battle one another for the kingship of Albion.”

  “Doomsayer!” Meldron shouted, thrusting his way through the crowd. He had dressed himself in his father’s clothing—siarc, breecs, and buskins of crimson edged in gold. He wore Meldryn Mawr’s gold knife and belt of gold discs fine as fish scales. And, as if this were not enough, he had bound back his tawny hair that everyone might see the king’s golden torc around his throat.

  My words had found their mark. Meldron was angry. His jaw bulged and his eyes glinted like chips of flint in the torchlight. Siawn Hy, Meldron’s champion, sleekly dark and smooth-faced, followed at his lord’s right hand.

  “Tegid is confused. Pay him no heed,” Meldron cried. “He does not know what he is saying.”

  The Llwyddi murmured uncertainly, and Meldron rounded on me. “Why are you doing this, bard? Why must you persist in frightening everyone? We have enough to do without listening to all this careless talk of yours.”

  “I see that you are busy indeed,” I replied, facing him squarely. >“Busy stealing Meldryn Mawr’s belt and torc. But do not think that by wearing your father’s clothing you will take his place.”

  “No one talks to the king this way, bard!” snapped Siawn Hy, thrusting himself closer. “Watch your tongue, or lose it.”

  “He is no bard,” Meldron said. “He is nothing but a doomsayer!” The prince laughed abruptly and loudly, waving me aside with a flick of his hand. “Go your way, Tegid Tathal. I have had a bellyful of your meddling. Neither you nor your spiteful tongue are wanted here. We do not need you anymore.”

  Siawn Hy smiled thinly. “It seems you are no longer useful to the king, bard. Perhaps your service would receive greater esteem elsewhere.”

  Anger leapt like a flame within me. “Meldron is not the king,” I reminded them. “I alone hold the kingship; it is mine to give as I choose.”

  “And I hold the Singing Stones!” Meldron bawled. “No man can stand against me now.”

  His boast brought a murmur of approval from many standing near. It became clear to me how he had managed to gull his followers and to work Llew’s inspired achievement to his own advantage. He had claimed the gathered fragments of the song-bearing stones and had made of them a talisman of power.

  “Your courage is misplaced,” I told them. “The Song of Albion is not a weapon.”

  Siawn’s sword flicked out, the blade a streak in the shimmering torchlight. He leaned close and pressed the point against my throat. “We have other weapons,” he hissed, his breath hot in my face.

  His threat was rash and reckless. The people surged around us, uncertain which way to go. Attacking a bard before his people could only bring disaster. But Meldron, with his heavy-handed authority— backed by Siawn Hy and the Wolf Pack—had them cowed. They did not know whom to believe anymore, or whom to trust.

  I regarded Siawn Hy with icy contempt. “Kill me now,” I taunted. “For Meldron will never be king.”

  Siawn forced the sword point deeper. I could feel his strength gathering behind the point. The blade bit into my flesh. I gripped my staff and made ready to strike.

  A voice cried out from the crowd. “Look!”

  Another shouted. “The cairn!”

  Siawn’s eyes shifted to the grave mound. Surprise replaced malice and the blade faltered.

  I glanced toward the hilltop. In the torchlight I saw something move inside the cairn. A trick of fickle light, I thought; a flicker of flame, the smoke swirl from the upraised torches. I made to turn away but saw it again . . . something up there . . . moving in the darkness . . .

  As we strained forward, all saw the form of a man emerging from the cairn.

  A woman cried: “It is the king!”

  “The king!” the people gasped. “The king lives!”

  A tremor of fear and wonder shivered through the host.

  In truth, I thought it was the king returned to life. But the thought vanished at once. It was not Meldryn Mawr struggling back to life.

  The man stepped from the grave mound, straightened, and began striding down the Hill of Kings toward us. I caught the golden glint of the champion’s ring on his finger.

  “Llew!” I shouted. “It is Llew! Llew has returned!”

  The name of Llew rippled through the gathered throng. “Llew . . . it is Llew . . . Do you see him? Llew!”

  Truly, the Otherworld traveler had returned. The Llwyddi melted before him, forming a shining path as he passed among them. He looked neither right nor left, but advanced with resolute steps down the hillside.

  I watched him and saw how the sight of him both astonished and heartened the people: they hailed him; hands stretched to touch him; torches were lofted before him. “Llew! Llew!” they shouted; how easily his name leapt to the tongue.

  I watched him striding down from the Kings’ Hill on the radiant way, and I thought to myself: On this frame the Swift Sure Hand may yet stitch a king.

  2

  RETURN OF THE HERO

  Greetings, brother,” I said, as Llew came to stand before me. I would have embraced him as a kinsman, but his jaw was set and there was dread purpose in his eye. “I am glad to see you.”

  He offered no greeting, but confronted Siawn Hy. “It is over,” he said—though he spoke quietly, his words were unyielding—“Put away that sword. We are going home.”

  Siawn Hy stiffened. The blade in his hand swung instantly from my throat to Llew’s. But Llew grasped the naked blade with his bare hand and jerked it aside.

  “Take him!” shouted Meldron, reaching for his knife.

  A dozen spears swung towards Llew. But the spearheads, still wrapped in their cloth coverings, wavered uncertainly. The warriors of Meldron’s Wolf Pack obeyed, although they were reluctant to assault their own champion. The crowd surged dangerously, pressing more closely; some shouted defiance at Meldron’s order. The people did not understand what was happening, but clearly they did not like it.

  “Llew!” I cried, sweeping the spears aside with the butt of my staff. “Hail, Llew!” I raised my staff and called to the crowd. “The champion has returned! Hail him, everyone!”

  The Llwyddi cried out with a mighty voice. Llew turned his eyes to the people gathered all around, torches held high, peering expectantly at him. It came to me that Llew did not know what his appearance meant to those looking on: Meldryn’s champion emerging from the Hero Mound. A dead king had gone into the dark portal, a living man had come out—mysteriously, inexplicabl
y, yet in full sight of all: an Otherworld hero declaring his equality with the king we had just buried.

  Before Meldron could react, I raised my hands for silence and said, “The king is dead, brother, but you are alive. You are back among your people, and that is cause for celebration.”

  The people greeted this with loud approval. Meldron’s frown deepened as he sensed his moment slipping away. He had exaggerated his support and underestimated the people’s regard for Llew.

  Still he sought to recapture the advantage. “What do you mean, coming here like this?” he demanded.

  “I have come to honor the king,” replied Llew slowly. His eyes flicked from the prince to Siawn Hy. Something passed between Siawn and Llew that I did not understand. But I saw Siawn bristling with anger, and Llew’s face harden once more as resolve returned. “And to do something I should have done long ago.”

  “You speak of honor,” Meldron sneered, “but you steal it from the dead.”

  “Llew was the king’s champion,” I declared—thinking it prudent to remind everyone that Meldryn Mawr had chosen Llew for this honor; it was the king’s final act, the one which had caused his death. “Who would deny the king’s champion the right to pay homage to his lord?”

  “You are not in authority here, bard!” Meldron said, his voice vengeful and brimming with spite. “You and your kind may have deceived my father with your sly words and cunning ways. Do not think to deceive me.”

  “Why speak of deception, Meldron?” I asked. “You are surrounded by wise advisers,” I told him, watching Siawn twitching with malice. “Could it be that you do not trust them?”

  “I trust the blade in my hand,” the prince spat. “I trust my war band. Better the company of warriors than the empty words of a bard.”

  Having pressed the matter too far, Meldron did not know how to retreat with dignity. Rather than embrace Llew, which would have increased his own support—for clearly, the people esteemed Llew greatly—he chose to mock and revile.

  The prince turned to all those gathered close about. “Llew has returned! We have nothing to fear, now that my father’s champion is once more among us.” He spoke with undisguised contempt. He slowly raised an accusing finger and pointed at Llew. “Yet I cannot help thinking,” he continued, “that if Llew had honored the king as highly as he claims, Meldryn Mawr would yet walk among us. How is it that the king lies dead and his champion lives?”

  What the prince hoped to accomplish by this rash speech, I knew well enough: to poison the people’s good feelings toward Llew. Apparently, he thought that casting doubt upon Llew’s loyalty and ability would aid him. But, instead of sowing doubt, all he managed was confusion.

  The people looked at one another in bewilderment. “What is Meldron saying? It was Llew who saved us from the Coranyid!” Several even protested outright: “Paladyr killed the king! Paladyr it was—not Llew!” they shouted.

  Yes, I thought, Paladyr killed the king. And where is Paladyr now?

  But I held my tongue. If suspicion is to be loosed, let it roost in Prince Meldron’s roof, I thought. Oh, but it is a chancy thing to malign a hero who has rightly earned the clan’s affection. Meldron showed poor judgment in the attempt, and people have a way of remembering these insults and redressing them.

  Having done all he dared for the time being, Meldron called for the procession to depart, then turned and thrust his way through the gathered host. Siawn Hy allowed himself a slender smile, then hurried after Meldron. The Wolf Pack moved away awkwardly, taking their places behind the prince.

  I was relieved to see them go, and equally relieved to have Llew beside me once more.

  “I feared you dead,” I whispered. People streamed by us, every eye on Llew. Some saluted him outright with heartfelt greetings and expressions of respect. Most were too awed to speak, however, and simply touched the back of their hands to their foreheads as they passed.

  Llew smiled ruefully. “I should have told you what I intended,” he said. “I thought it best to go alone. I am sorry. It will not happen like that next time.”

  “You mean to leave again?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Llew replied, tensing again. “I am sorry, Tegid. That is how it must be. You understand.”

  “But I do not understand,” I confessed.

  “Then you will just have to accept what I am telling you.”

  “But you are telling me nothing.”

  He made no reply, so I reached out and gripped his arm; it was rigid beneath my touch. “Llew, we are brothers, you and I. We have drunk from the same cup, and I will not let you go again without hearing a better explanation than I have heard just now.”

  Llew frowned unhappily, but he remained silent and turned his eyes to watch the departing Llwyddi. I could see it was hard for him, this decision he had made. He wanted to tell me, I think, but simply did not know where or how to begin. So I suggested, “Say nothing yet. We will wait until the others have gone ahead, and we will follow at a distance so that we will not be overheard. You can tell me as we walk, and no one will disturb us.”

  Llew agreed, and we waited until the last of the procession had started back through Glyn Du. Then we struck off after them, walking a long while in silence before Llew found the words he sought.

  “I am sorry, Tegid,” he said. “I should have told you, but I thought you would prevent me.”

  “Prevent you from leaving?”

  “From doing what I had to do—what I must do,” he said, and I could feel the turmoil seething within him. I made to speak a soothing word, but he prevented me, saying, “No, Tegid, not yet. I have to say this.”

  He was quiet a little longer. We listened to the soft swish of our feet through the long grass. Ahead, the first of the procession had reached the entrance of the glen and were dousing their torches in the stream. By the time we came to the place, all that remained was the lingering scent of steam and smoke. The procession had moved out into the Vale of Modornn. A pale moon had risen and we could see, drawn in silver on the darkness of the valley floor, the long lines of walkers stretching out before us.

  It made my heart ache to see it, for it seemed to me as if we were a dying race walking through the fading light into oblivion’s darkness. But I kept this to myself and waited for Llew to speak his heart to me.

  He began again as we moved out from the mouth of the black glen. “There is a war raging in my world,” said Llew softly. “It is not a war of swords and spears—I wish it were: we could fight the enemy then. But the enemy is here”—he struck his fist against his chest—“The enemy is within us—it has poisoned us and made us sick. We are sick inside, Tegid. Siawn and I have been poisoned, and we have brought this poison to Albion. If we stay here, we will poison everything—we will destroy everything.”

  “Llew, but for you it would have been destroyed already. You saved us when no one else could.”

  He seemed not to hear me, for he continued as before. “Simon— Siawn has already spread the poison far. He has put ideas into the prince’s head—ideas that have no place here in Albion.”

  “He would have little trouble there. Meldron was ever greedy for more than he was given.”

  “I believe the murder of Meldryn Mawr was Siawn’s idea. He thought kings were chosen by right of succession, and he—”

  “Right of succession?” I wondered, halting him. “I know nothing of this right.”

  “Dilyn hawl,” he said, choosing other words. “It means that the kingship is passed from father to son. In our world that is how it is done. Simon—Siawn Hy, that is—did not know that it was done any other way. He thought if Meldryn Mawr died, the kingship would pass to Prince Meldron directly.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Not in so many words, no. But I know Simon; I know how he thinks. And he convinced Meldron that together they could change the way kingship was held and conferred—they could alter the rites of sovereignty.”

  “So that is why they tried to silence the
song,” I said. “And that is why they hold the Singing Stones now.”

  “The Song of Albion . . .” He grew silent, remembering.

  “They think the stones will give them power,” I informed him. “They hope to use the song as a weapon.”

  “Then it is even worse than I thought,” Llew muttered. “If I had done what I set out to do, none of this would have happened.”

  He stopped walking and caught me by the arm. “Do you hear, Tegid? All those people—your clansmen, Tegid, the king and all the others—they would still be alive if I had done what I came here to do. Meldryn Mawr and all those who fell to Lord Nudd would still be alive.”

  “What do you mean, talking this way?” I said. “It is only because of you that any of us remain alive now. We owe our lives to you.”

  “It is only because of me so many have died!” he insisted. “Tegid, listen to me. I came here to take Simon back, and I failed. I allowed myself to be charmed, to become enchanted with this place, and to believe that I could stay.”

  “If you had not come,” I replied, trying to soothe him, “Meldron and Siawn would have succeeded.”

  “Tegid”—the grim determination was back in his voice—“Simon must be stopped. He does not belong here—I do not belong here, either. We must go back to our own world. I must take him away from here, but I need your help, brother. Help me, Tegid.”

  I gripped his arms in the way of kinsmen and said, “Llew, you know I will do anything you ask. But I would ask something of you.”

  “Ask, then. I will do it if I can.”

  “Let me make a king of you,” I said.

  He recoiled. “You have not heard a word I said,” he cried, shrugging my hands from him. “How can you ask me such a thing?”

  “You were the king’s champion. By the Hero Feat you saved us when no one else could. The people respect you; they would support you before Meldron.”