The Silver Hand

  Thirty men took the sword into their own hands and fell upon it— some with a cry, others silent to the last. The rest refused the sword and faced Scatha’s swift blade instead. Not once did she hesitate, nor did her hand tremble. When each man died, the body was hauled up the mound by members of Cynan’s war band or Calbha’s and there left on the ground around the dolmen for the birds and beasts to devour.

  Then, as the sun glow lit the sky in the west, Siawn Hy’s turn came to decide.

  “Give me the sword,” he snarled. “I will do it.”

  Garanaw and Emyr, who stood on either side of the condemned man, looked to Llew for his assent. Llew nodded. Scatha stepped aside as Garanaw pressed the hilt of the sword between Siawn’s bound hands, and—

  —before Garanaw had ever removed his hand, Siawn twisted the blade and swung it sharply down between his legs. The bindings on his feet split and fell away, and Siawn Hy dived forward as Emyr’s sword sliced the air above his head. He rolled on the ground and came up running, darting for the river. He shouted something, but I did not catch the words.

  Siawn reached the river before any of us could move. Still shouting, he tried to face us—a smile of triumph on his leering face. He raised the sword between his hands in mocking salute.

  Bran’s swift spear was already in the air—before anyone realized he had thrown it. The slender missile appeared as a blur in the gathering dusk, a blue-white streak in the fading light. The next we knew, Siawn’s sword was spinning to the ground and he was staggering backwards, clutching at his chest where the shaft of Bran’s spear suddenly appeared. The impact of Bran’s throw carried Siawn Hy to the water marge. One foot in the water, one foot on the riverbed, he screamed again—words I did not understand—and he fell. In the time-between-times he fell.

  And as he fell, his body seemed to fade from sight. He struck the water—I saw it! But could I trust my new eyes? For there was no splash . . . and no corpse to be found when we rushed to the place where he plunged. Siawn Hy had vanished.

  “He has gone back,” said Llew, gazing at the water. “I always meant to send him home, but I thought he would be alive when he went.”

  “It was his choice.”

  “No,” Llew said. “It was mine.”

  Twilight descended over the valley; the first stars had begun to shine and the moon glowed bright just above the horizon. Llew turned to the people of Dinas Dwr, his people, and to the kings and warriors and friends looking on. “Justice has been done,” Llew told them. “The blood debt is paid.”

  “Hail, Llew Silver Hand!” Bran called, lofting his spear. The Flight of Ravens championed the cry, and the people raised the chant. “Silver Hand! Silver Hand! Silver Hand!”

  He raised his hand to them; the figured metal shone in the twilight, and I saw in the gleaming silver the radiant glow of kingship glinting bright.

  Goewyn appeared, walking along the bank on the river; without a look or word to anyone, she approached Llew. Every eye beheld her slender form clothed in a simple white robe with a mantle of sky blue falling from her shoulders. Moonlight bright in her pale gold hair, she seemed to shine like an earth star.

  She carried a small wooden chest in her hands. The chest was made of oak—inspiration’s wood, in bardic lore. Placing the oaken chest at Llew’s feet, she straightened, touched the back of her hand to her brow and stepped back. Llew bent down and took up the chest. He opened it, turned the chest, and held it out for all to see. Inside were a number of milk-white stones: the Singing Stones.

  Llew withdrew one of the stones and held it before the throng. I saw the silver fingers flex and tighten as he crushed the stone in his metal hand. A sound like chorused thunder broke from the shattered stone— a sound like star voices clear and clean as gemstones coursing through the endless sky paths—a sound like ten thousand harps united in the heart-piercing music of the Oran Mor, the Great Music—a sound from beyond this worlds-realm, framed by the Swift Sure Hand.

  My spirit soared, swift and high: and it seemed that I merged with the matchless sound. I lost all knowledge of myself or where I was; I became one with the melody I felt moving within me. I opened my mouth, yet it was not my voice which struck the twilight air. It was the Song of Albion.

  I opened my mouth and the words poured out in a stream of splendid song:

  Glory of sun! Star-blaze in jeweled heavens!

  Light of light, a High and Holy land,

  Shining bright and blessed of the Many-Gifted;

  A gift forever to the Race of Albion!

  Rich with many waters! Blue-welled the deep,

  White-waved the strand, hallowed the firmament,

  Mighty in the power of One,

  Gentle in the peace of great blessing;

  A wealth of wonders for the Kinsmen of Albion!

  Dazzling the matchless purity of green!

  Fine as the emerald’s excellent fire,

  Glowing in deep-clefted glens,

  Gleaming on smooth-tilled fields;

  A Gemstone of great value for the Sons of Albion!

  Abounding in white-crowned peaks, vast beyond measure,

  The fastness of bold mountains!

  Exalted heights—dark wooded and

  Red with running deer—

  Proclaim afar the high-vaunted splendor of Albion!

  Swift horses in wide meadows! Graceful herds

  on the gold-flowered water-meads,

  Strong hooves drumming,

  a thunder of praise to the Goodly-Wise,

  A boon of joy in the heart of Albion!

  Golden the grain-hoards of the Great Giver,

  Generous the bounty of fair fields:

  Redgold of bright apples,

  Sweetness of shining honeycomb,

  A miracle of plenty for the tribes of Albion!

  Silver the net-tribute, teeming the treasure

  of happy waters; Dappled brown the hillsides,

  Sleek herds serving

  the Lord of the Feast;

  A marvel of abundance for the tables of Albion!

  Wise men, Bards of Truth, boldly declaring from

  Hearts aflame with the Living Word;

  Keen of knowledge,

  Clear of vision,

  A glory of verity for the True Men of Albion!

  Bright-kindled from heavenly flames, framed

  of Love’s all-consuming fire,

  Ignited of purest passion,

  Burning in the Creator King’s heart,

  A splendor of bliss to illuminate Albion!

  Noble lords kneeling in rightwise worship,

  Undying vows pledged to everlasting,

  Embrace the breast of mercy,

  Eternal homage to the Chief of chiefs;

  Life beyond death granted the Children of Albion!

  Kingship wrought of Infinite Virtue,

  Quick-forged by the Swift Sure Hand;

  Bold in Righteousness,

  Valiant in Justice,

  A sword of honor to defend the Clans of Albion!

  Formed of the Nine Sacred Elements,

  Framed by the Lord of Love and Light;

  Grace of Grace, Truth of Truth,

  Summoned in the Day of Strife,

  An Aird Righ to reign forever in Albion!

  I awakened in the dark of night. I was lying on a yellow oxhide in my hut in the crannog, but I do not know how I came to be there. The air was still and calm, the heat of the day lingered even yet. At first I thought it was the echo of the Song that had awakened me. I lay without moving, listening in the darkness. After a time I heard the sound again and felt the faint stirring of a cooling breeze on my face.

  I rose then and went out as the thunder echoed across the heavens and the first drops of rain began to fall—fat, round beads of waters. And I smelled the fresh scent of cool rain-washed air.

  Thunder rumbled again and there came a noise not heard in Albion for far too long: the sound of wind and rain sweeping across the surrounding hi
lls. The storm-music filled the glen and echoed through the forest as the rain swept down from Druim Vran and out across the lake towards Dinas Dwr.

  Out from the huts and hall the people came, wakened by the storm. They lifted their eyes to the sky and let the blessed rain splash their upturned faces. Lightning flashed and thunder answered with its booming call, and the rain fell harder. Eager hands cupped water and laved it over dry limbs and heat-wearied heads; men laughed and kissed their wives; children danced barefoot as the water soaked them to the skin.

  My inner vision quickened once more to the laughter of rejoicing and relief. With my inward eye, I saw hills greening, streams gushing, and rivers flowing again. I saw cattle growing sleek and crops ripening in the fields; apple trees bending under the weight of their fruit, and walnuts, hazelnuts and beechnuts swelling inside their shells. Fish sported in clear lakes, while ducks, geese, and swans nested in the shallows. Milk frothed foamy white and mead glowed golden in the bowl; rich brown ale filled the cups, and good dark bread filled the ovens; meat of all kinds—pork, venison, beef, fish, poultry—heaped the platters. All through Albion the hungry ate and were filled; the thirsty drank and were refreshed.

  For the long oppression of drought and death was ended. Silver Hand had begun his reign.

  INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

  Publisher Allen Arnold read the Song of Albion books when they were first published fifteen years ago. He has re-read them a few times since, and recently was able to ask Stephen Lawhead some questions about this exceptional trilogy and the world of Albion.

  Arnold: You surprised many readers of The Paradise War when, in this second novel, you switched the narrative voice from Llew to Tegid–an interesting choice.

  Lawhead: We needed to see the world through someone else’s eyes, even if those eyes were blind. Tegid seemed a good narrator for the second book because there was a lot of arcane material that had to be understood by the reader in order for the story to proceed. Who better to explain these things than a bard? As Tegid explained things to Llew, so he enlightened the reader.

  We also needed an outside perspective on Llew. Tegid persuade us of Llew’s growing greatness as a king–something Llew himself would not have been able to do without coming across as an arrogant megalomaniac.

  A: I have noticed that, where trilogies are concerned, the second novel tends to be the darkest and often the hardest for the author to write since it’s neither the beginning or ending but the murky middle filled with struggle but no resolution. Was that true with this novel?

  L: Perhaps. I know that Tolkien almost despaired of having any readers left at the end of The Two Towers—the second book in the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

  I don’t think The Silver Hand is terribly dark. I see it as an important bridge between the innocence of book one, The Paradise War, and the maturity of book three, The Endless Knot, and there was a lot of fun to be had along the way. In this second book, I get to stir the pot without worrying too much about how it is all going to end.

  A: Where does the idea of the silver hand come from? Was that planned from the beginning of book one?

  L: It is part of Celtic philosophy regarding kingship: the maimed man cannot be king. This makes good practical sense in a culture where the king is primarily a commander who leads other warriors into battle. The old Celts chose able-bodied men as kings since a man with a gimpy leg or a withered arm would not have been able to run very well, or swing a sword; a maimed king would have been a liability for his companions on the battlefield.

  And yet, there is this recurring idea of the ‘maimed king’ and it turns up from time to time in various legends–the Wounded King in the Arthurian mythos is an echo of this notion, for example. Certainly, the concept is central to the Llew Silverhand story found in ancient sources: the maimed king who is somehow made greater in his weakness.

  A: The stories and songs within this series have an authentic, powerful aura to them. Describe the process of creating them.

  L: Each of the books has a story-within-a-story section in which the inner story being told, usually by the bard Tegid, reflects the central theme of the book in which it is found. If they have a powerful aura, it is because they are adapted from genuine tales that come down to us from the ancient Celts. I wanted to keep as many elements in the stories that the old Celts themselves would have recognized—these stories serve that purpose.

  That’s the basis for the stories and songs. As for the process of creating them . . . I honestly don’t know what happens, they just flow from the acquired template. But I do enjoy writing those passages.

  A: I think your fans are very much drawn to Tegid. Do you also find him to be a magnetic personality?

  L: Tegid is a bard—in many ways the ideal bard. He possesses power that he never wields for himself, but only ever for the good of his king, who he supports, and his people, who he represents. Like all good bards, he is also a great story-teller and because of his vast knowledge of so many things–medicine, natural lore, history, law—he’s a good friend to have in a tight spot. Sure, I’m drawn to a character like that.

  A: In an early review of this novel, the reviewer said it was “an epic struggle between Light and Darkness . . .” Share your thoughts on how this epic struggle plays out in both worlds.

  L: The key motivation for the adventure is the fact that what happens in one world affects the other; there is a subtle and intimate connection. In Albion, the mechanism governing this connection is breaking down and things are leaking through. This is why Lewis was “sent” over to Albion in the first place, to heal the rift and put things back the way they were supposed to be. Of course, the powers at work for destruction oppose this effort, and they are seen as powers of darkness working against the light of creation which infuses each world.

  Having said all that, I think that most epic fiction is concerned with the struggle between good and evil, light and darkness—this is typical of the genre. I keep hoping that someone will pick up on the theme that I am really trying to explore: the nature of sovereignty.

  EXCERPT FROM HOOD

  The pig was young and wary, a yearling boar timidly testing the wind for strange scents as it ventured out into the honey-coloured light of a fast-fading day. Bran ap Brychan, Prince of Elfael, had spent the entire day stalking the greenwood for a suitable prize, and he meant to have this one.

  Eight years old and the king’s sole heir, he knew well enough that he would never be allowed to go out into the forest alone. So rather than seek permission, he had simply taken his bow and four arrows early that morning and stolen from the caer unnoticed. This hunt, like the young boar, was dedicated to his mother, the queen. She loved the hunt and gloried in the wild beauty and visceral excitement of the chase. Even when she did not ride herself, she would ready a welcome for the hunters with a saddle cup and music, leading the women in song. “Don’t be afraid,” she told Bran when, as a toddling boy, he had been dazzled and a little frightened by the noise and revelry.

  “We belong to the land. Look, Bran!” She lifted a slender hand toward the hills and the forest rising like a living rampart beyond. “All that you see is the work of our Lord’s hand. We rejoice in his provision.”

  Stricken with a wasting fever, Queen Rhian had been sick most of the summer, and in his childish imaginings, Bran had determined that if he could present her with a stag or a boar that he had brought down all by himself, she would laugh and sing as she always did, and she would feel better. She would be well again.

  All it would take was a little more patience and . . . Still as stone, he waited in the deepening shadow. The young boar stepped nearer, its small pointed ears erect and proud. It took another step and stopped to sample the tender shoots of a mallow plant. Bran, an arrow already nocked to the string, pressed the bow forward, feeling the tension in his shoulder and back just the way Iwan said he should. “Do not aim the arrow,” the older youth had instructed him. “Just think it to the mark. Send it on your th
ought, and if your thought is true, so, too, will fly the arrow.”

  Pressing the bow to the limit of his strength, he took a steadying breath and released the string, feeling the sharp tingle on his fingertips. The arrow blazed across the distance, striking the young pig low in the chest behind the front legs. Startled, it flicked its tail rigid, and turned to bolt into the wood . . . but two steps later its legs tangled; it stumbled and went down. The stricken creature squealed once and tried to rise, then subsided, dead where it fell.

  Bran loosed a wild whoop of triumph. The prize was his! He ran to the pig and put his hand on the animal’s sleek, slightly speckled haunch, feeling the warmth there.

  “I am sorry, my friend, and I thank you,” he murmured as Iwan had taught him. “I need your life to live.”

  It was only when he tried to shoulder his kill that Bran realized his great mistake. The dead weight of the animal was more than he could lift by himself. With a sinking heart, he stood gazing at his glorious prize as tears came to his eyes. It was all for nothing if he could not carry the trophy home in triumph.

  Sinking down on the ground beside the warm carcass, Bran put his head in his hands. He could not carry it, and he would not leave it.

  What was he going to do?

  As he sat contemplating his predicament, the sounds of the forest grew loud in his ears: the chatter of a squirrel in a treetop, the busy click and hum of insects, the rustle of leaves, the hushed flutter of wings above him, and then . . .