The Silver Hand

  “How many days?”

  “Three or four days, five at most—if we are stinting.”

  A mouthful of water a day for man and beast. Two for the children . . . how could we be more stinting than that? I wondered.

  “I do not think Calbha will return in time,” Llew continued, “if he returns at all.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  Llew considered, and I heard the buzz of insects rising as the heat of day ebbed somewhat. The sound was dry and dusty as the hard-baked earth itself.

  “I do not know,” he said, his voice sinking into despair. “There is nothing anyone can do.” After a moment he added ruefully, “I should not have left.”

  I wondered at these words. It was true: he should not have left Dinas Dwr; I had told him as much in my warning. But the way he said it . . . the way he said it sparked in me a peculiar feeling: as if a current flowed beneath my feet, a mighty stream, a river cataract rushing below the crust of the earth beneath us. I imagined that I could feel this hidden power seeping up through the rock on which I sat.

  “You knew this would happen, Tegid,” Llew continued. “You said there would be disaster. Well, you were right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This would not have happened if I had stayed,” Llew replied bluntly.

  Again I felt the hidden power surge, trembling in the very earth and air around us. This would not have happened if I had stayed . . . He knew! He felt it too. But why?

  Why would remaining in Dinas Dwr have changed anything— unless Llew’s presence itself exerted some power over the evil rampant in the land? He possessed Ollathir’s awen. The awen of the Chief Bard of Albion could be a potent and powerful weapon—he had shown it in the inspired creation of the firestorm. Was that it? Or was there something else?

  “Llew, what are you saying?” I asked.

  “I should have listened to you,” he replied dully. “There. I have said it. Do not make me say it again.”

  “That is not what I meant,” I told him. “Why do you think your presence would have prevented the blight from poisoning the lake?”

  He shifted on the rock beside me. “Who knows?” he replied angrily. “What do you want from me?”

  “It is said that the True King in his kingdom holds the power to protect and preserve. Is this why you feel your presence would have made a difference?”

  “You have all the answers,” he replied tartly. “Then answer me this—” I heard the slap of skin on skin as he struck his upraised stump with his one palm. “I am maimed, Tegid. Remember?”

  He stalked away then, leaving me no wiser than before—except in this respect: I knew now that some great and powerful force lay hidden close to hand, like a sword sheathed against the Day of Strife. It remained for me to discover how it could be raised. If I could do that . . .

  But first I must find it.

  I drew up my legs, crossed them, and settled myself on the rock. I breathed deeply, and exhaled—once . . . twice . . . three times—clearing my thoughts, putting fear and anxiety far from me, emptying my heart of all but the desire to penetrate the mystery. When I was completely calm and content, completely at peace, I took three purifying breaths and recited an invocation:

  All praise to the Swift Sure Hand

  for his deliverance at need;

  All praise to the Word-Giver,

  for the Truth’s Three Pillars;

  All praise to the Living Light,

  for Wisdom’s holy fire.

  Attend me now, Great Guide, and lead me in your ways. For, wide is the world, and tangled the paths by which a man must go. And I am so easily led astray.

  Here am I upon my rock, and here I stay:

  I will be unmoved until you, Unmoved Mover,

  move in me;

  I will keep silent until you, Living Word,

  speak to me;

  In darkness will I sit until you, Light of Life,

  illumine me.

  Grant me now, Gifting Giver, three things I seek:

  Knowledge of the thing I do not know;

  Wisdom to understand it;

  Truth to discern it rightly.

  And then, calm within myself, silent, expectant, I rested my hands on my knees and waited. Peace . . . peace. I listened and waited.

  I waited . . . peace . . .

  The air, still and heavy as a cloak, held all the sounds of the valley as if transfixed in amber. I heard, a small distance away, the muted speech of mothers coaxing their children to sleep. I heard the whimper of a dog, the lowing of a cow, and the twitter of swifts as they returned to their nests in the cliff face above me. I heard the sound of the world sinking into darkness, a hush like an exhalation, a sigh of gratitude for escape from the hateful day’s hurts and harms.

  I shut my ears to these sounds and listened inwardly . . . peace . . . peace . . . peace . . .

  I heard the sound of my own heart beating regular and slow. I heard the sound of my own voice falling like a flung stone into the silence of a well. I heard my plea for knowledge and wisdom echo in the rippling depths.

  The echo ceased, swallowed in the depths. And in reply, I heard the voice of Ollathir, Chief Bard,Wise Leader and friend, now departed:

  “Why speak a word that is already spoken?” Ollathir’s voice demanded sternly. “Why reveal that which is already shown? Why proclaim the truth which rises like a mountain in your midst?”

  And then I heard, loud from the high ridgeway, the sharp blast of the carynx; a single long burst, followed by two shorter bursts. The sound rang across the still valley, across the dead lake.

  Calbha had returned.

  34

  ENIGMA AND PARADOX

  The people rushed to welcome Calbha. Thirst made them fervent, and they acclaimed him with shouts and with singing. But the songs soon trickled away, and the shouting ceased. Calbha had not returned with water—and not so much as a drop remained of the little he had taken with him when he left.

  Disappointment was quickly swallowed by dismay when he reported what he had seen.

  “Meldron has entered the valley beyond the ridge to the south,” he said, climbing down from the saddle. “We counted five thousand on foot, and two thousand on horseback.”

  “How far away?” It was Llew, pushing through the abruptly silent gathering.

  “One day,” Calbha replied, “no more.”

  “Do they know we are here?” asked Cynan, taking his place beside Llew.

  “They know. Meldron knows.” King Calbha did not blunt his words, and they pierced the hearts of all who heard him. “The enemy is following the trail you made when you returned here from Dun Cruach.”

  “Bran!” Llew called, summoning the Raven battle chief, who answered from the throng. “We will need watchmen on the ridge.”

  “It will be done.” Bran hastened away at once.

  Llew turned to Calbha once more. “Did they see you?”

  “It would have made no difference if they had,” the king replied. “But no—we waited through the day before crossing the ridge by dark, just to make certain no enemy scouts would see. Still, he needs no scouts. Meldron knows where to find us, I tell you.”

  “We will hold council at once,” Llew said quickly. “Cynan, bring Scatha—”

  “I am here, Llew,” Scatha called, stepping through the crowd.

  “Tegid?”

  “I am behind you,” I answered.

  “Good. Summon Cynfarch,” he ordered, “and tell him to join us. We will hold council as soon as Bran returns.”

  “I will bring Cynfarch,” Cynan said and hurried away.

  Goewyn and some of the women approached with jars of water for the riders. “You are weary and tired,” Goewyn said, offering Calbha one of the jars. “Drink.”

  Calbha accepted the jar and raised it to his lips. He glanced around him quickly. “Is there enough for all?” he asked.

  “There is enough for you,” she said. “you have ridden f
ar on our behalf. For that we are grateful. Drink and be refreshed.”

  But Calbha refused. “If there is not enough for all, there is not enough for us. We will not drink while others thirst.” He returned the jar to her untouched.

  Llew raised his voice to the people and bade them return to their rest. As the crowd dispersed, he said to those remaining, “Follow me.”

  We walked through our shriveled fields and up the slope to the place where Llew and I had camped when first we had come to Druim Vran. Llew lit a small fire so that we could see one another and we spread oxskins we had brought from camp. Cynan and Cynfarch joined us then, and we settled back to wait for Bran.

  Though I could not see their faces, I could feel the fear slithering cold into our midst: intense, desperate, coiling quietly as a snake.

  “We began to think you would not return,” Cynan said to Calbha. He spoke just to dispel the mounting apprehension.

  “We ranged as far north as we could,” the king replied, eager to add his voice to Cynan’s, “and further than we intended.”

  “No water?” Cynfarch wondered.

  “Water aplenty! We found rivers, streams, pools, springs . . . all of them poisoned, all dead.” He paused, his voice cracking dry. “There is no good water anywhere. The land is dying.”

  “It is the same in the south,” Llew said.

  “Ah,” replied Calbha, “I wondered what had induced Cynfarch to join us.”

  “We outwitted Meldron at Dun Cruach,” Cynan said, and related the feat of the fire shield for Calbha’s benefit. “It was glorious.”

  Cynfarch could not resist adding, “And if you had not squandered your safety for us, Meldron would not now be squatting at your gates. As it is, we have merely exchanged one grave for another.”

  “Lord Cynfarch,” Scatha addressed him firmly, “we are in council here. This is not the place for such talk.”

  “Is it not?” the king retorted. “If I have misspoken, I am sorry. But if I have spoken truly, mark my words and remember them.”

  We settled into an uneasy silence, broken only by Bran’s arrival. When Bran had seated himself, Llew said, “We will be warned if Meldron seeks an early attack—”

  “But he need not attack at all,” Cynfarch growled. “We are soon out of water. Thirst will kill us just as surely as Meldron’s spears—if more slowly.”

  “With seven thousand,” put in Calbha, “the Great Hound has enough spears to make a swift end.”

  “Seven thousand . . .” mused Cynan. “I would know where Meldron is getting water for a host so great.”

  My mind’s eye awakened. I saw before me, not the faces of those gathered at the council ring, but Meldron’s vast host streaming into the lowland valley beyond Druim Vran. I saw the slowly advancing line thick-scaled with shields slung on their backs, sinuous and gleaming like a deadly serpent. I saw the sun red in their eyes, the blistering light of day ablaze on shield boss and sword edge. I saw the dust rising in pillar-clouds beneath the hooves of horses and the feet of men.

  I saw a pitch sky, black and brooding, smoke-filled where the Great Hound passed; heat lightning shattered the gloom in ragged sheets. I saw the land falling beneath the shadow—a darkness stretching ever nearer the high wall of Druim Vran.

  “Well, we cannot sit here and wait for thirst to claim us,” said Llew. “We must fight while we still have strength to do so.”

  “Fight?” Cynfarch scoffed. “He has seven thousand! Even if we survive a battle with a force so powerful, thirst will kill us anyway.”

  “That is your fear talking, Cynfarch,” Bran said coldly. “Llew, tell us what you wish us to do.”

  It was right that Bran should defer to Llew, and it was nothing new—that was his way. But as he spoke I heard again the voice of Ollathir: “Why reveal that which is already shown?”

  Thus the council began. We talked long into the night. Food was brought to us, and we ate. The bread broke hard and dry in our mouths and stuck in our throats; there was no water to wash it down. The talk grew heated under a baleful moon—voices loud, tempers quick. But I remember nothing of the discussion; I did not taste a morsel of the meal placed before me. For I had glimpsed a sight that removed all else from my mind: the shape of the mountain in our midst.

  While the battle chiefs deliberated, images arose in my mind— images of past times when Ollathir was alive and Meldryn Mawr was king. I saw Meldryn Mawr on his throne in his hall, his countenance brilliant as the torc at his throat . . . dark eyes searching the crowd before him, confident and wise . . . his presence glowing bright as the crown on his noble brow . . . the Great Golden King, Lord and Protector to his people.

  And I saw Ollathir, Chief Bard, beside him, splendid in his purple cloak and torc of gold, Champion among Bards, Truth’s Warrior, proud and solemn and wise, his strong hands wielding the Penderwydd’s staff, in conduct steadfast, upright, and unwavering . . . Lord of the Learned, a trustworthy Servant of Sovereignty.

  I saw fair Prydain as it was before its desolation, a green gem shining beneath radiant skies, and Sycharth rising above the flat land on its proud promontory overlooking grain-laden fields and the ever-changing sea beyond . . . the strongholds of lords glowing in golden dawn light and gleaming in the setting sun . . . high-banked earth and timbered walls . . . fair woodland, deep forests, rushing streams, and stately rivers . . . Prydain, Most Favored of Realms, the unassailable seat of a most powerful king.

  Meldryn Mawr, Great Golden Monarch . . . Ollathir, Prince of Bards . . . Prydain, Fastness of Bold Kings . . . these three together . . . together.

  Why these three? What was I to glean from this vision?

  It would take a keener mind than mine to pierce the mystery to its heart. Meanwhile, our enemies gathered beyond the protecting ridge wall. If the answer was to come, it would have to come soon. Meldron, ever grasping, would not wait to claim his victory.

  The war council talked long into the night. But my head was full of the enigma stirring my thoughts like a tempest, and I could no longer sit still. My heart burned within me, and I could no longer endure listening to the strident voices. I rose and withdrew from the council ring; my departure went unnoticed.

  “Let them talk,” I thought. “The enemy gathers roundabout—I must do something.”

  But I did not know what to do. So I began walking. I walked, and let my feet take me where they would, tapping with my staff as I went. I skirted the encampment and continued on the path.

  As it happened, my tapping disturbed one sleeper, who awoke and joined me on my meandering ramble. Nettles did not speak, but rose and fell into step beside me. Since our flight from Dun Cruach, his presence had become agreeable to me and I welcomed his quiet way. I stopped and turned to him. “Come, we will walk together.”

  To my surprise he answered, “Mo bodlon, do.”

  His speech improved with each day, as well it might—he worked at it tirelessly. I nodded and proceeded along the path. The small stranger walked beside me, and we continued in silence for some time.

  “Mae trafferthu?” he asked at last.

  “Yes,” I replied. “There is great trouble.”

  We walked on, and I found myself beginning to explain to him the mystery that taunted me. I did not know how much he could understand of what I said, nor did I care. It seemed good to me to have someone to talk with, someone who would merely listen.

  “When the Wicked One escaped his Underworld prison, where did he fly?” I asked. “When Nudd, Prince of Uffern and Annwn, King of Coranyid, rode out to despoil this worlds-realm, where did he strike first?”

  Nettles, padding softly beside me, made no reply, so I answered my questions myself: “He came to Sycharth—the principal stronghold of Prydain’s foremost king. That is—”

  “Ah,” said Nettles, “Prydain!”

  I realized once again how quickly his mind worked. Even while I spoke, he was squirreling the words away. So I spoke aloud my thoughts, slowly, so that he might catc
h what he could.

  “It was Prydain,” I said, “that felt the dread Nudd’s wrath—but only after the king had been lured away through deception. It was Prydain that the Demon Horde despoiled—but only after its king had been put to flight.

  “And I ask you: who did Nudd pursue in his icy hatred? Who endured the cruel blows of Albion’s Ancient Enemy?

  “I will tell you: Meldryn Mawr. The Sovereign of Eternal Night chose the Great Golden King to face the terrible onslaught of his hatred. It was Meldryn Mawr, Prince of Prydain, Lord of the Llwyddi who endured the Enemy’s pitiless attack.”

  Yes, I thought, Prydain’s king endured the onslaught—and more: survived and triumphed.

  “But I ran ahead of myself,” I told Nettles, who walked curious beside me. “Before all that—before Prydain fell, before Nudd and his vile Coranyid were loosed . . . there was the Cythrawl.”

  “Cythrawl,” Nettles echoed softly. “Hen Gelyn.”

  “Yes,” I told him. “The Ancient Enemy. And who was it that the Beast of the Pit sought first to destroy? It was Ollathir, Chief Bard of Albion . . . Ollathir.”

  “Penderwydd Ollathir,” Nettles mused.

  “Chief Bard Ollathir, yes—he held the Sovereignty of Prydain! Ollathir alone knew where the Phantarch dwelt!”

  Again I was confronted by the three: lord and realm and bard. But there were others—other lords, other realms, other bards—many others. Why these three?”

  “This is the mystery, my friend,” I murmured aloud to Nettles. “Why these three?

  I pondered this for a while, and it came to me then that I already knew the answer—the word already spoken: the Song of Albion. So I began to explain to Nettles about the Phantarch, and in explaining to him I began to lay hold of myself.

  “Why these three?” I said. “I will tell you: because these three alone upheld the Song of Albion!”