He tugged on the end of his mustache thoughtfully.
“You ask for aid, and I would give it,” he said at last. “Yet it is not my blood that would be shed in such a fight. Therefore I will put the matter to my chieftains and leave them to decide.”
He sent men at once to summon the nobles and chieftains from the settlements round about. They arrived in Blár Cadlys, fifteen strong, and when they had assembled in the hall, the king bade me stand before them. “Speak, bard,” the king invited, “we will hear you now.”
I stood before them and once again related all that had happened through the season of snows. I told them Sycharth was destroyed, and Prydain’s population devastated. I told them of Lord Nudd and the demon host, and how the Great King had met his death by treachery. I told them how the prince had wrongfully seized the torc and suggested that Meldron was woefully vulnerable to attack, and if we were to act quickly, we could crush the usurper before he had time to amass strength and power in the land.
And then I appealed for their support in helping Llew establish himself in his rightful place as king of the Lwyddi. Calbha thanked me and asked me to leave them, whereupon the Cruin lord and his chieftains sat in deliberation over all I had said.
All through the day they held council while Llew and I took our ease, savoring the warmth as Gyd stretched gentle, healing hands across the raw Sollen-ravaged lands. Llew was quiet and thoughtful. I could see he was contemplating something within himself and did not disturb him. On the evening of the second day we were brought before the king’s council to hear the result of their considerations.
The hall was dark and smelled of stale smoke. No fire burned in the hearth. We approached the king’s chair and stood before him; we were not invited to sit. I could see by the faces gathered in the gloom—closed and solemn—that Calbha’s good will had come to an end. Nor did he soften the blow, but spoke with his customary forthrightness. “We have heard the warning in your words, bard,” he said. “And we believe it to be the saving of many lives. For this, we are beholden to you. Even so, we cannot support you against Meldron.”
“Lord Calbha,” I replied, “I accept your decision although it stirs grave apprehension in my heart. For, in revealing Meldron’s weakness, I have placed the lives of my kinsmen in your hands—yet I asked no pledge of faith in return.”
“That is so, you have asked no pledge,” he agreed readily. “I tell you the truth, I am content to let the matter rest as it is. I will not take arms against the Llwyddi or seize the lands in Prydain.”
I made to thank him, but the Cruin lord held up his hand. “All the same, I am persuaded that Meldron will not be so easily appeased. For you to abide here will inflame Meldron’s anger against us, and I have no wish to give him cause for war. Therefore you must be gone from here before the sun sets tomorrow.”
The Cruin noblemen murmured gruff approval over their lord’s decision. “But because of the trust you have shown me,” Calbha continued, “I will give you horses of your choice among my own; also I give you any weapons you desire and whatever provisions you consider most helpful to you.” He regarded us hopefully. “What say you to that?”
“You are more than fair, Lord Calbha,” I answered, inclining my head respectfully. “We accept your gifts.”
But Llew spoke up. “Your generosity is great, Lord Calbha. Yet I cannot help but wonder—if it extends so far, might it extend a little farther?”
“Yes?” the Cruin lord asked warily. “Speak it out. What would you have?”
“We would have a boat, Lord Calbha.”
Calbha regarded Llew discreetly and tugged on the end of his mustache. “A boat?” he repeated, slowly glancing around at his advisers; none seemed to disapprove of the request. “Very well, I will give you a boat. But, for a boat, I will ask something of you in return.”
“Ask then,” Llew replied. “What may be done, that I will do.”
“I ask your pledge of peace between us as long as we both rule.”
“Lord, if I am a king, I am a king without a realm or people. But whatever authority I hold, I pledge you the peace of my rule as long as I live.”
This was said with simple and forthright conviction, and it pleased Calbha immeasurably. Having exchanged pledges, King Calbha ordered a cup to be brought, and he and Llew drank. I marked the event well, for it was the first time Llew’s kingship had been acknowledged in deed as well as word.
At dawn the next morning, Calbha led us to the stockade where he had brought twelve horses from which we were to choose our mounts. All were excellent beasts, and I was prepared to choose for both of us, but Llew turned to Calbha and said, “We have a long journey before us, and no doubt many dangers. The horses of the Cruin are renowned throughout Albion, and indeed, these far surpass all others I have seen. If you were in my place, which would you have?”
This gave Calbha the opportunity to demonstrate his superior knowledge of horses, which he did with great zeal. “Any of these will bring a goodly return in trade,” he said. “All will serve you well.” He paused and allowed himself a wink. “But you are right to ask my advice, for it is not always the fleetest foot or the sleekest coat which will serve best.”
He turned then and entered the stockade, walking among the horses, patting them, stroking them, letting his hands play over their flanks. Llew walked with him, and they talked together, examining each horse in turn and discussing its merits. I watched as the two talked together. Again I thought how Llew seemed more resolved and purposeful. His manner was different. For the first time since emerging from the Hero Mound on Cnoc Righ, he appeared confident and determined.
Calbha and Llew inspected the horses and, after long consideration, chose two: a leggy black mare, and a roan stallion with white fetlocks. Both were spirited animals, young and strong. And, when they had been saddled, Calbha himself rode with us to the coast on his piebald mount—a black-and-white stallion.
Like the Llwyddi, the Cruin kings had long maintained a stretch of coastland along Muir Glain for a shipyard. Unlike the Llwyddi, however, the Cruin had never cultivated a fondness for the sea. They much preferred their horses and the solid earth beneath their feet.
Nevertheless, their boats were seaworthy and stout: black, thick-planked, low-riding, with heavy square sails. And, though he had but four boats large enough to transport both us and our horses, Calbha insisted in giving us the best of the four. While his boatmen readied the vessel for us, the Cruin king paced the shingle, worrying over each small detail and calling commands to his men as they secured the horses in the center of the boat.
I think he was sorry to see us leave. He had no bard, and he would have liked me to stay with him. Also, he had come to respect Llew; but for his fear of Meldron, he might have found a place for Llew in his war band.
So King Calbha helped us as he could. And when the time came for us to push away from the shore, he stood with his arms crossed upon his chest and watched until we had gained deep water and raised sail.
“He was good to us,” Llew said, settling himself beside me at the tiller. “I would like to repay his kindness one day.”
“Well, now that you have your boat, where will you go?” I asked, turning my eyes to the sea spreading bright before us. “The sea is calm; the wind is fair. Meldron is far behind us. Where will you go?”
“To Ynys Sci,” he replied without hesitation. “There we will receive a welcome worthy of us.”
So we sailed for Sci—fairest of Albion’s scattered isles—hastening over the whale-track to our safe haven. Our boat was not fast, but it would have sailed itself, I think. We had only to keep the sails full and the prow divided the sparkling water. We traveled secure in the knowledge that Meldron could not follow us—there were no boats left in Sycharth. Once out of sight of Muir Glain, we felt bold to go ashore where and when we would to make camp and find water and fodder for the horses.
In all, it was an agreeable voyage-—save for the fact that the land we pass
ed was empty and forsaken. Prydain was a wilderness. We saw no sign of anyone, and it caused me to wonder whether we would find Sci inhabited when we arrived.
When, after our days on the broad-swelling sea, we sighted the rocky headland Sci, I stood at the prow and scanned the cliffs above the bay. “There!” I shouted, pointing to the slender smoke plume rising from the kitchens behind Scatha’s hall. “Nudd has not carried them away after all!”
“Good,” replied Llew. That was all he said, but I could tell he was much relieved. During his long sojourn on the island, he had given his heart to the place. “So far as I have one,” he once told me, “Ynys Sci is my home.”
But he had another reason for wanting to come to Sci. The island was well beyond Meldron’s reach; it would be long before the usurper could venture here in search of us. Yet, remote as it was, Sci held commerce with all of Albion: the sons of noblemen and champions came from every realm to Scatha’s Isle to learn the warrior’s art. Through them we would discover how matters stood in Caledon and Llogres.
These thoughts were on my mind as we sailed into the shallow, sand-rimmed bay. Our arrival had been seen, and we were greeted by Boru, chief instructor in Scatha’s school. He rode down to the beach from the clifftop caer to greet us.
“Tegid!” he cried, when he saw me standing at the prow. He lashed his horse into the swirling surf, leapt from the saddle, and waded out to meet us. “Tegid. It is good to see you. Welcome!” I threw him the rope, which he wrapped around his hands, and began walking backward to the beach. “And who is with you, Tegid?”
“Boru!” Llew said, leaping from the boat. “Do you not know me?”
The lanky warrior halted at the voice and stared. “Llyd?” he said. “Can it be?”
“Llyd it is—or was,” I answered. “He is Llew now. Much has happened since we were last with you.”
“Greetings, brother!” Llew splashed towards him, extending his hands in the kinsman’s welcome.
“Llew, is it?” Boru laughed, dropping the rope and gripping Llew’s arm tightly. “So you have won a proper name at last. Tell me about it!”
“In time, in time,” Llew said. “Tegid is bursting to tell you everything.”
Boru helped secure the boat and unship the horses, which we rode bareback across the beach and up the narrow, winding track to the caer. Scatha’s caer has neither wall nor gate—her renown as a warrior is all the fortress she requires. Thus we rode directly to the hall entrance and dismounted.
“Smell the air, Tegid!” said Llew, drawing a deep breath. He turned his face to the sky. “And look—ahh, the sunlight—it is like nowhere else.”
Boru went before us into the hall, throwing aside the oxhide covering the doorway and calling loudly. It was not Scatha who answered, however, but Goewyn, her golden-haired daughter. She rose from her seat at the hearth, surprise giving way to pleasure as she hastened to welcome us.
“Welcome, Tegid. It is good to see you. It seems an age since you left here, yet it is but one season.”
She turned politely to Llew. Her smile faltered as her eyes played over his features.
“Goewyn . . . I—” Llew began.
At the sound of her name on his tongue, she said, “Llyd?”
He nodded. She stepped hesitantly nearer, raising her hands to touch him but holding back.
“Llyd he was,” I explained, “but no longer. The man you see before you is now named Llew, and he is king of Prydain.”
“Is this so?” Goewyn’s eyes grew wide. “A king?”
“It was Tegid’s doing,” Llew admitted. “It is a long story.”
“That is a tale I want to hear! King of Prydain?” Boru hooted in genuine surprise. “Who would have guessed it?”
“You have changed,” Goewyn said softly. “And in more than name only. You are not the same man who left here only a season ago.” She lifted a hand to touch his hair, his face. Then, as if reassured that the man standing before her was the one she remembered, she embraced him. “I have missed you.”
This last was said to Llew alone—truly, the welcome in her soft brown eyes was for him alone. I saw how easily she gave herself to him, and knew that through the dark, snow-plundered days of Sollen, she had carried a glowing ember within her heart. This ember kindled a flame the moment she embraced Llew, and it began burning brightly from that moment.
And why not? They knew each other well. Llew had spent seven years on the island: training as a warrior through three seasons of the year, and resting during the cold fourth season— taking his ease with Scatha’s three beautiful daughters, each of whom returned to winter on Ynys Sci when most of the warriors-in-training had gone home to clan and kin.
Obedient to Meldryn Mawr’s command, however, Llew had not returned to Sycharth, but spent the wild, cold Sollen seasons on Sci with those few whose privilege it was to remain in that bright company.
I turned to Boru. “How many warriors are here?”
“Sixteen,” he replied. “They have gone hunting on the far side of the island and will not return until they have run the legs off their horses. No others have arrived yet.”
“Where is Scatha?”
“She is riding,” Goewyn replied. Remembering her courtesy, she moved away quickly. “You are tired from your journey. Sit, please, and rest. I will bring food and drink.”
She hastened away, and Llew watched her until she disappeared from sight behind a screen at the far end of the hall. “It is good to be here. I feel as if I have been away forever.”
“Sit, brothers,” said Boru, drawing together chairs for us. He lowered himself into a seat and folded his long arms over his chest. “What tidings from Meldryn Mawr? Where are your warrior-cubs?” he asked, beaming at us.
I wondered at this. Could it be that those on the island knew nothing of what had passed in the world beyond their shores?
“What have you heard from Prydain?” I asked, taking my place.
“Not a whit; not a whistle,” Boru answered. “But that is not surprising. The sea froze between Sci and the mainland this year. I have never seen it so cold—I thought it would never end.”
Just then Goewyn reappeared, with Govan fairly dancing behind her. Sisters they were, but as unlike as two women may be. Goewyn’s hair was golden and fine as flax, her skin fair and white; Govan’s hair was tawny and her skin deep hued, as if kissed by the sun. Govan’s eyes were blue where her sister’s were brown. And whereas Goewyn was tall and elegantly graceful, Govan was nimble, lithe—a delight in motion. She was rarely quiet, and never still. Wherever Govan was there was laughter—or tears, it is true—but seldom silence.
Accordingly, they came laughing into our presence. Govan approached Llew directly. She raised wide eyes to meet his, searching his face, fascinated by the change she saw there. “Llyd?” she whispered in a voice made small by awe. “What has happened to you?”
“It was a hard winter,” Llew replied.
“My sister told me you were changed, but . . .” Delighted by the alteration in Llew’s appearance she laughed, letting the words go.
“It is good to see you too, Govan,” Llew replied.
“You were ever welcome here,” Govan told him, suddenly solemn— suppressed laughter tugged at the corners of her mouth. “And you shall be no less welcome now that you are a king.”
We heard the hollow sound of hoofbeats outside and, almost before they ceased, she was there—Scatha, clothed in a scarlet cloak and mantle, with a girdle of plum purple. Her long, golden hair was unbound and wind-tossed from her ride. Her cheeks glowed with her exertion, and she entered the hall with eyes alight, for she had seen our boat on the beach and knew she had guests to welcome.
“Tegid!” she called upon entering. “Greetings and welcome to you.” She turned to Llew. “And to you also—” Scatha hesitated, stepping closer and scrutinizing Llew carefully. “Llyd? Is it you?”
“I have returned, Pen-y-Cat,” he answered, using the informal title which her warrior
pupils bestowed upon her: Chief of Battle.
“Come to me, son of mine,” she said. All who had mastered their skills in her hard school she recognized as her sons.
Llew stepped before her. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and gazed long into his eyes. “Yes, it is Llyd,” she said and, leaning close, kissed him on both cheeks. “Welcome, my son.”
“I am called Llew now,” he told her simply.
“And he is a king!” added Govan.
“Is he indeed?” Scatha asked, regarding Llew placidly. “This is a tale I will hear gladly.” At that moment, servants entered with platters of bread and cold meat and jars of beer. “Build up the fire and fill the cups,” Scatha called to them. Turning to me, she said, “And you, Tegid Tathal, will tell us how this remarkable thing has come about.”
“At last!” said Boru. “And here was I, thinking he had swallowed his tongue.”
Just then Gwenllian, Scatha’s first daughter, entered the hall. She had been riding with her mother and had seen the horses stabled before coming in. She now joined us, calling a greeting as she glanced quickly from one to the other of us.
Upon seeing Llew, she froze in midstep.
The smile of welcome vanished from her face, and her body grew rigid. I thought she might swoon, for she swayed on her feet—but her eyes remained bright and alert. We all fell silent, watching her. “Hail, Llew, I greet you,” she breathed in almost silent recognition, her eyes playing over his features. “You have come at last.”
I did not wonder at this odd greeting, for it was Gwenllian whose emerald eyes had first glimpsed the shape of the dire events which had come to pass in Albion. And flame-haired Gwenllian it was who bestowed the prophecy upon Llyd from which he had taken his new name. Seeing him now, wise Banfáith that she was, she recognized him despite his altered appearance, or it may be because of it.
The moment passed, and Gwenllian went to him; she pressed his hand and kissed his cheek by way of greeting. Scatha watched this exchange, her features sharp with interest. And even as her daughter stepped away, Scatha’s eyes remained on Llew, standing easily now, assured once more of his place among them. I do not know what the Pen-y-Cat saw—perhaps she was remembering the man she had lately sent away, or appraising a strong new ally.