ACCLAIM FOR STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD’S PAST WORKS
“[T]he narrative has the excitement of a fantasy novel, a vivid historical setting, and a lengthy, credible, and satisfying plot—just the right elements, in fact, that have made Lawhead a commercial success time and again.”
—Publishers Weekly review of Byzantium
“In a style reminiscent of Tolkien, Lawhead presents a world of vivid imagery. This book is a delight.”
—Bookstore Journal regarding The Paradise War
“Patrick is unfailingly sympathetic and believable, and his story of losing and finding his faith will resonate with a wide spectrum of readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Celtic twilight shot with a brighter, fiercer light, and tinged with modern villainy . . . savagely beautiful.”
—Michael Scott Rohan, author of the
Winter of the World trilogy regarding The Endless Knot
“Though Lawhead brilliantly creates an authentic and vivid Arthurian Britain, he never forsakes the sense of wonder that has graced the Arthurian legend throughout the ages.”
—Publishers Weekly regarding Pendragon
“Lawhead invests his often poetic vision of a Celtic land living ancient laws with charm and dignity.”
—Publishers Weekly review of The Silver Hand
“An epic struggle between Light and Darkness . . . well paced, exciting and well researched.”
—Mick Norman, author of
Forbidden Planet regarding The Silver Hand
“This graceful combination of Atlantean legend, Celtic myth, and Christian message [is] reminiscent of C.S. Lewis. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal review of
Taliesin: Book One of the Pendragon Cycle
“Lawhead’s [The Iron Lance] displays the author’s deep convictions as well as his storytelling expertise.”
—Library Journal
“Rich in historical detail and peopled with a wide variety of believable characters, this novel of simple faith and high adventure should appeal to fans of Christian fantasy.”
—Library Journal review of
The Black Rood: The Celtic Crusades Book 2
“Lawhead pulls off a genuinely moving parable of good and evil.”
—Publishers Weekly regarding
Avalon: The Return of King Arthur
THE ENDLESS KNOT
OTHER TITLES BY STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD
The Dragon King Trilogy:
In the Hall of the Dragon King
The Warlords of Nin The Sword and the Flame
Dream Thief
Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome
The Pendragon Cycle:
Taliesin
Merlin
Arthur
Pendragon
Grail
Avalon
Song of Albion trilogy:
The Paradise War
The Silver Hand
The Endless Knot
Byzantium
The Celtic Crusades:
The Iron Lance
The Black Rood
The Mystic Rose
Patrick, Son of Ireland
Hood
SONG OF ALBION ~ BOOK 3
THE ENDLESS KNOT
STEPHEN R.
LAWHEAD
Visit www.stephenlawhead.com
© 1993, 2006 by Stephen Lawhead
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected]
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Lawhead, Steve.
The endless knot / Stephen Lawhead.
p. cm. — (Song of Albion ; bk. 3)
ISBN 978-1-5955-4221-2 (pbk.)
1. Mythology, Celtic—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Lawhead, Steve. Song of Albion (WestBow Press) ; bk. 3.
PS3562.A865E54 2006
813'.54—dc22
2006014635
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 13 QW 9 8 7 6 5
For Jan Dennis
CONTENTS
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
1. DARK FLAMES
2. THREE DEMANDS
3. THE WEDDING FEAST
4. A FINE NIGHT’S WORK
5. GOOD COUNSEL
6. CYNAN TWOTORCS
7. THE RAVENS’ RETURN
8. THE CYLCHEDD
9. ALBAN ARDDUAN
10. THE GREAT KING’S SON
11. THE BOAR HUNT
12. THE RETURN OF THE KING
13. THE AIRD RIGH’S MILL
14. INTRUDERS
15. CHILD-WEALTH
16. THE SEARCH
17. NIGHT RIDE
18. THE GEAS OF TREÁN AP GOLAU
19. TIR AFLAN
20. THE SIABUR
21. THE SLUAGH
22. YELLOW COAT
23. CROM CRUACH
24. THE HIGH TOWER
25. THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT
26. YR GYREM RUA
27. BATTLE AWEN
28. ON THE HIGH ROAD
29. FLY, RAVEN!
30. DEAD VOICES
31. BWGAN BWLCH
32. STRANGERS
33. RETURN OF THE WANDERER
34. THE TRAP
35. TREF-GAN-HAINT
36. CLASH BY NIGHT
37. THE HERO FEAT
38. BRIGHT FIRE
39. THE ENDLESS KNOT
AUTHOR INTERVIEW
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Many of the old Celtic words and names are strange to modern eyes, but they are not as difficult to pronounce as they might seem at first glance. A little effort—and the following rough guide—will help you enjoy the sound of these ancient words.
Consonants – As in English, but with the following exceptions:
c: hard — as in cat (never soft, as in cent)
ch: hard — as in Bach (never soft, as in church)
dd: a hard th sound, as in then
f: a hard v sound, as in of
ff: a soft f sound, as in off
g: hard — as in girl (never soft, as in George)
ll: a Gaelic distinctive, sounded as tl or hl on the sides of the tongue
r: rolled or slightly trilled, especially at the beginning of a word
rh: breathed out as if h-r and heavy on the h sound
s: soft — as in sin (never hard, as in his); when followed by a vowel it takes on the sh sound
th: soft — as in thistle (never hard, as in then)
Vowels – As in English, but generally with the lightness of short vowel sounds
a: short, as in can
á: slightly softer than above, as in awe
e: usually short, as in met
é: long a sound, as in hey
i: usually short, as in pin
í: long e sound, as in see
o: usually short, as in hot
ó: long o sound, as in woe
ô: long
o sound, as in go
u: usually sounded as a short i, as in pin
ú: long u sound as in sue
ù: short u sound as in muck
w: sounded as a long u, as in hue; before vowels often becomes a soft consonant as in the name Gwen
y: usually short, as in pin; sometimes u as in pun; when long, sounded e as in see; rarely, y as in why)
The careful reader will have noted that there is very little difference between i, u, and y—they are almost identical to non-Celts and modern readers.
Most Celtic words are stressed on the next to the last syllable. For example, the personal name Gofannon is stressed go-FAN-non, and the place name Penderwydd is stressed pen-DER-width, and so on.
Since all the world is but a story,
it were well for thee to buy
the more enduring story rather than
the story that is less enduring.
THE JUDGMENT OF ST. COLUM CILLE
(ST. COLUMBA OF SCOTLAND)
Hear, O Son of Albion, the prophetic word:
Sorrow and be sad, deep grief is granted Albion in triple measure. The Golden King in his kingdom will strike his foot against the Rock of Contention. The Wyrm of fiery breath will claim the throne of Prydain; Llogres will be without a lord. But happy shall be Caledon; the Flight of Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens, and ravensong shall be her song.
When the Light of Derwyddi is cut off, and the blood of bards demands justice, then let the Ravens spread their wings over the sacred wood and holy mound. Under Ravens’ wings, a throne is established. Upon this throne, a king with a silver hand.
In the Day of Strife, root and branch shall change places, and the newness of the thing shall pass for a wonder. Let the sun be dull as amber, let the moon hide her face: abomination stalks the land. Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast; let the sound be heard among the stars. The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds; the essence of Albion is scattered and torn among contending winds.
The seas will rise up with mighty voices. Nowhere is there safe harbor. Arianrhod sleeps in her sea-girt headland. Though many seek her, she will not be found. Though many cry out to her, she cannot hear their voices. Only the chaste kiss will restore her to her rightful place.
Then shall rage the Giant of Wickedness, and terrify all with the keen edge of his sword. His eyes shall flash forth fire; his lips shall drip poison. With his great host he will despoil the island. All who oppose him will be swept away in the flood of wrongdoing that flows from his hand. The Island of the Mighty will become a tomb.
All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass, who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe both great and dire. Rise up, Men of Gwir! Fill your hands with weapons and oppose the false men in your midst. The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven, and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.
Hear, O Son of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of Spirit, and with Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.
Banfáith of Ynys Sci
1
DARK FLAMES
A fire rages in Albion. A strange, hidden fire, dark-flamed, invisible to the eye. Seething and churning, it burns, gathering flames of darkness into its hot, black heart. Unseen and unknown, it burns.
These flames of darkness are insatiable; they grow, greedy in their spreading, consuming all, destroying all. Though the flames cannot be seen, the heat scorches and singes, searing flesh and bone alike; it saps the strength and withers the will. It blisters virtue, corrodes courage; it turns love and honor to hard, dark embers.
The dark fire is an evil and ancient enemy, older than the Earth. It has no face; no body, limbs, or members to be engaged and fought, much less quenched and conquered. Only flames, insidious tongues, and hidden dark sparks that blow and scatter, blow and scatter on every fretful wind.
And nothing can endure the dark fire. Nothing can stand against the relentless, scathing corruption of the unseen flames. It will not be extinguished until all that exists in this worlds-realm is dead cold ash.
The oxhide at the door rippled as Tegid Tathal stepped into the hut. His quick eyes searched the darkness; he could see again. His blindness had been healed, or at least transmuted somehow into vision by the renewing waters of the lake. For he saw me sitting in the straw on the floor, and he asked, “What are you doing?”
“Thinking,” I replied, flexing the fingers of my silver hand one by one. That hand! Beauty made tangible in fine, flawless silver. A treasure of value beyond imagining. A gift to me—a warrior’s compensation, perhaps—from a deity with a most peculiar sense of humor. Most peculiar.
Tegid assures me that it is the gift of Dagda Samildanac, the Swift Sure Hand himself. He says it is the fulfillment of a promise made by the lord of the grove. The Swift Sure Hand, by his messenger, granted Tegid his inner sight and gave me my silver hand.
Tegid observed me curiously while my thoughts drifted. “And what are you thinking about?” he said at last.
“About this”—I raised my metal hand—“and fire,” I told him. “Dark fire.”
He accepted this without question. “They are waiting for you outside. Your people want to see their king.”
The sound of merrymaking was loud outside; the victory celebration would continue for days. The Great Hound Meldron was finally defeated, and his followers brought to justice; the long drought was broken, and the land restored. The survivors’ happiness knew no bounds.
I did not share their happiness, however. For the very thing that secured their safety and gave wings to their joy meant that my sojourn in Albion had come to an end. My task was finished and I must leave—though every nerve and sinew in me cried against leaving.
Tegid moved nearer and, so that he would not be speaking down to me, knelt. “What is wrong?”
Before I could answer, the oxhide lifted once again and Professor Nettleton entered. He acknowledged Tegid gravely and turned to me. “It is time to go,” he said simply.
When I made no reply, he continued, “Llew, we have discussed this. We agreed. It must be done—and the sooner the better. Waiting will only make it worse.”
Tegid, regarding the small man closely, said, “He is our king. As Aird Righ of Albion it is his right—”
“Please, Tegid.” Nettleton shook his head slowly, his mouth pressed into a firm line. He stepped nearer and stared down at me. “It is permitted no man to stay in the Otherworld. You know that. You came to find Simon and take him back, and you have done that. Your work is finished here. It is time to go home.”
He was right; I knew it. Still, the thought of leaving cut me to the heart. I could not go. Back there I was nothing; I had no life. A mediocre foreign student, a graduate scholar woefully deficient in almost every human essential, lacking the companionship of men and the love of a woman; a perpetual academic with no purpose in life save to scrounge the next grant and hold off the day of reckoning, to elude life beyond the cocooning walls of Oxford’s cloisters.
The only real life I had ever known was here in Albion. To leave it would be to die, and I could not face that.
“But I have something more to do here,” I countered, almost desperately. “I must have—otherwise, why give me this?” I lifted my silver hand; the cold metal appendage gleamed dully in the darkness of the hut, the intricate tracery of its finely wrought surface glowing gold against the soft white of silver.
“Come,” the professor said, reaching down to pull me up. “Do not make it more difficult than it already is. Let us go now, and quietly.”
I rose to my feet and followed him out of the hut. Tegid followed, saying nothing. Before us the celebration fire blazed, the flames leaping high in the gathering dusk. All around the fire people rejoiced; snatches of song reached us amid the happy tumult. We had not taken two steps when we were met by Goewyn carrying a
jar in one hand and a cup in the other. Behind her a maid carried a plate with bread and meat.
“I thought you might be hungry and thirsty,” she explained quickly and began pouring the ale into the cup. She handed the cup to me, saying, “I am sorry, but this is all I was able to save for you. It is the last.”
“Thank you,” I said. As I took the cup, I allowed my fingers to linger upon her hand. Goewyn smiled, and I knew I could not leave without telling her what was in my heart.
“Goewyn, I must tell you—” I began. But before I could finish, a pack of jubilant warriors swarmed in, clamoring for me to come and join them in the celebration. Goewyn and the maid were pushed aside.
“Llew! Llew!” the warriors cried. “Hail, Silver Hand!” One of them held a haunch of meat, which he offered to me and would not desist until I had taken a healthy bite from it. Another saw my cup in my hand and poured ale from his own cup into mine. “Sláinte, Silver Hand!” they cried, and we drank.
The warriors seemed intent on carrying me away with them, but Tegid intervened, explaining that I wished to walk among the people to enjoy the festivity. He asked them to guard the king’s peace by removing any who would disturb me, beginning with themselves.
As the warriors went their noisy way, Cynan appeared. “Llew!” he cried, clapping a big hand upon my shoulder. “At last! I have been looking for you, brother. Here! Drink with me!” He raised his bowl high, “We drink to your kingship. May your reign be long and glorious!”
With that he poured ale from his bowl into my already full cup.
“And may our cups always overflow!” I added, as mine was spilling over my hand at that moment. Cynan laughed. We drank, and before he could replenish my cup, I passed it quickly to Tegid.
“I thought we had long since run out of ale,” I said. “I had no idea we had so much left.”
“This is the last,” Cynan remarked, peering into his bowl. “And when it is gone, we will have long to wait for fields to be tilled and grain to grow. But this day”—he laughed again—“this day, we have everything we need!” Cynan, with his fiery red hair and blue eyes agleam with delight and the contents of his cup, was so full of life— and so happy to be that way after the terrible events of the last days— that I laughed out loud with him. I laughed, even though my heart felt like a stone in my chest.
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