So, standing in my rightful place, before my destined seat of Gwencathra, called for me Cader Taliesin, I gave Gwyn’s words of warning to the Table of Companions in the chamber Gwahanlen. I need not tell you; it has become a moment much commemorated in the decades since, in song and story and picture. I also think I need not tell you that most of those who so commemorate it get it wrong. It is so very often the case, my sorrow to say; that those who came later and never knew always seem to delude themselves that they know better and truer than the ones who were in fact there.
The truth was staggering enough: Gwyn’s naming of Marguessan as the secret enemy of Keltia, betrayer of her kin, hidden pupil of Edeyrn Marbh-draoi; her niching of the sacred Pair, Cam-Corainn, the Cup of Wonder, the great Graal of the Mysteries without which there is no healing, not of body nor of soul. And worse even than that, though that was ill enough, the tidings that Marguessan sought to create a Black Graal, a blasphemous Cup of Terror to set against the Goddess’s rightful Cauldron…
I spoke no news here, of course; as Gwen had said, all this was long since known to the Company and to very many not here present, all by grace of Gwyn’s coming to Caerdroia when I failed to do so. But by and large, the common folk of Caerdroia did not know the half of it; which was well for them that they did not. Too recently had they succeeded in reaching a state of fragile peace and freedom and healing from the wounds Edeyrn had gouged in all our souls; to spring upon them now a nightmare such as this would be to ask more of them than they were just now capable of giving, and not yet would we ask it.
"When then to ask?" repeated Morgan, as we went at long last to our own rooms, the greetings over and the Companions dispersed to their own beds. "Maybe soon; maybe never. Much will depend on Gweniver and on you."
"On me?!" I felt faint. "What in the name of the Mother can I do? I have only just recalled my own name, the fact that I am bard, had a message to deliver… And we all saw how mighty I proved against Marguessan, back there in—"
But I could not say the name, not yet; I trembled in spite of myself, and though I did not shame to do so, not in front of my beloved lady, still I would rather she did not see me do so. But Morguenna Pendreic ac Glyndour ever saw all.
"No matter. Listen cariad o’nghariad, croi o mo chroi, Gwyn son of Nudd has already pronounced: You and Gweniver are to be the soul of this Questing. You will choose the Questers, make up the companies, determine the search, ride out yourselves upon the sacred Hunt. And you shall find the Cup; for all find what they truly seek."
I stopped to look at her. "Do they? Do they, truly?"
"Aye. Truly. Have you ever—truly—doubted?"
I sighed. "Nay, not even when I forgot to remember… But such a quest, a Hunt of Dark and Light—
"A plain hunt. No more, also no less." Morgan snugged against me, closer than before, her arm round my waist in back, and after another hesitation I put my own arm round her shoulders and pulled her closer still, and so entangled with each other we went on down the hall.
Later still, once again in our huge carved bed, its wood as golden with newness as it had been the first night we ever spent here together, I sprawled on my back and stared up at the ceiling. Beside me, Morgan lay quietly weeping; not for sorrow or failure in love, but for the desperation and joyful perfection we had found here tonight. It seemed not possible, I thought vaguely, and no doubt such transcendence of union merely portended fresh hells we could not even begin to think on… I ran my thumb over my marriage ring, just visible in the light that reflected in through the windows from the moon on the sea below. Two gold serpents, intertwined, ruby-eyed; the ring my lady had set upon my finger at our handfasting—and Gwyn had honored that too. How came it that I had forgotten, in Oeth-Anoeth?
Because the ring had been taken from me, I reminded myself; and that somehow seemed more a violation than even the violation of my mind’s citadel. Morgan had slipped it on my finger once more, when we were alone in bed at last, telling me that it had been found in my saddlebag when my horses were discovered wandering by Drum Wood edge. But I was still troubled by the thought that it had been taken from my hand; and I knew why Morgan wept.
The morning dawned bright-cloudy, with a wind to shake the grasses on the plains below the City walls. In the first instant of my awakening, the light seemed the same as that in Oeth-Anoeth… In Morgan’s arms last night, I had finally found the courage and the words to speak of my prisonment at her sister’s hands. At the end of the telling (and you may be sure I told it full measure, I being bard and all), when Gerrans rode up like the Young Lord himself and unhelmed, and all else vanished away, Morgan had said no word, but had turned and taken my face between her hands in the faint moonlight and had kissed me gently and sorcerously, to take away all my fear and pain. I reached out now in panic renewed, but my hand brushed Morgan’s bare hip beside me, and I remembered where I was, and with whom, and what had befallen…
After love and a quick plunge in the adjacent pool-bath and a few bites of bread dipped in ale and a mouthful or two of cold beef by way of breakfast, we clad ourselves to endure in comfort what promised to be a long, long Council meeting, and were away downstairs before the bell in the Salt Tower struck ten. (That is early! I know what you are thinking, but as a rule Kelts do not do mornings well, and if left to our natural rhythm, naught in Keltia would begin until high twelve, or, even better, an hour or two past…)
Today’s meeting was to be held not in the Hall of the Table but in the usual Council chamber; and as I entered with Morgan and Ferdia, whom we had picked up on the way, the remembered immediacy of this place came back to me with a stunning rush. I knew this room! How fine that I remembered!
I looked around at the other Councillors even now taking their seats. Although in title and rank all Councillors were equal alike, in practice this had sifted itself a bit more finely than that. The Great Officers of State—the Taoiseach or the First Lord of War or the Lord Extern who governed dealings with outfrenne worlds—were more equal, so to speak, than such as Morgan or I, who for all our royal rank were more on the order of common-or-garden Councillors, private advisors to our monarchs. So we tended to sit on the outskirts of the room, which I for one preferred, as it gave me rather more liberty to employ a skeptic observing eye; and the Great Officers tended to seat themselves at the actual Council table, presided over by Arthur at the window end and Gweniver at the end nearest the door. (I go into this tedious seating detail for good reason; bear with me.)
Over on the far side of the long dark gray basalt table, the new Archdruid, Ultagh Casnar, was talking to Grehan Aoibhell. I shifted in my seat, and Morgan laid a calming hand upon my knee. I misliked more than I can tell you the thought of anyone, however worthy he might be as man and magician both, sitting in—usurping—the chair that by right should have been Merlynn Llwyd’s. But that was not my only problem with the Order to which I belonged.
Up until the Battle of Ratherne—Nandruidion—we of the Counterinsurgency, and especially those of us who were Druids, had looked with awe not far off reverence for Merlynn to bring back to its true Path the Order that Edeyrn had perverted and disgraced. Oh, to be sure, there were very many Druids who had rejected Edeyrn’s dark dogmas, utterly and with horror, and who had held steadfastly to their honor and the Light. Not all of them had been of, or had been known to, the Counterinsurgency, even; it was quite possible for true Druids to have escaped our notice, down all those years when we did battle every instant for Keltia’s life and our own. Bastions of orthodoxy, like Bargodion, where Arthur and I had learned Druidry, had become embattled sanctuaries, keeping the Druids’ way alive in Edeyrn’s despite—he who once had been its highest exemplar, Ro-sai, the Great Teacher, and who had then turned into the darkness all of Druidry that he could grasp, and much of the rest of Keltia too.
It was therefore Merlynn—Ailithir of my childhood and Arthur’s—to whom we had looked for salvation and restoral; and he would have done so, had he… had he not…
I forced myself to face it: had he not been destroyed at Nandruidion. Well, not destroyed, perhaps, just so, as I alone of all Kelts yet knew; but taken from us in a way even I did not yet understand.
The Order itself had limped along in the years of Arthur’s absences on reivings—Gweniver, though full Domina of the Ban-draoi, had no jurisdiction over her Druid counterparts save as Ard-rian only, and would not have presumed to exert any rule even if she could have claimed some. Before we had gone out reiving, a new Archdruid, one Comyn Duchray, had been appointed on an interim basis by a council of Druid elders, until such time as an election could be held. But there arose faction wars, and purges of tainted Theocracy pawns, and Duchray had ended up holding the post of Archdruid for almost two decades. Last year, however, while I was ensconced in Oeth-Anoeth, an election had finally been held, and the one chosen was this Ultagh—another native of Gwynedd’s Old North, as Duchray had been, from the clann lands of Marguessan’s lord, Irian Locryn.
So you may well imagine how ‘ware and wary I was just now, as I watched, jealousy on my Merlynn’s behalf hot in my heart, this new Archdruid turn to that place which had been of old the seat of the Druid masters at the Council table of Keltia… But, to my astonishment, he passed it by, and went on to take a seat not at the table proper, but in the humble row along the wall, and I tell you my eyes were on sticks to see it.
"When he became Archdruid last year, he requested in the name of Merlynn Llwyd—not in his own name, Talyn—that Gweniver remove the Archdruidship from all precedence in Council, and make the place of the Archdruid the lowest of all at the Council table, give him the last and least vote in counting." Morgan’s voice was conversational, and I could glean no clue as to her attitude to all this. Then: "No fear, cariad! Our Merlynn has been neither forgotten nor usurped…"
I was incredulous. "Asked he so? This Ultagh?"
"Aye, asked that it be kept so forever, as undying reminder of Edeyrn and fitting homage to Merlynn, and Arthur and Gwennach both confirmed it. All this was while you were gone from here…"
Again I was silent. This grand gesture on Casnar’s part showed a certain humility at first looking; but was it true humility, or merely a kind of humble arrogance, a fozing sham of the real soul-grace? I looked at him, and all at once he sensed my attention, and looked up to meet my gaze before I could turn away. He seemed to sense my thought as well, for he made me a small bow before taking his seat; needless to tell you, he had not been in Gwahanlen the previous night, being no member of the Company.
On my other side from Morgan, Betwyr—Druid also, of my own year at Bargodion, and Councillor like us—caught my need for reassurance.
"All those who carried any taint of the Marbh-draoi’s ways and workings were stripped of their powers, as you well know. A fearful undertaking, you will recall; but it was done. The Order slowly cleansed its way, cleaned its own House; perhaps it was best for us, that the thing was slow in the achieving."
But I was still looking at Ultagh Casnar. "Think you it has been achieved?"
Neither Betwyr nor Morgan replied to that one; and with an effort I shut from my mind that secret sight of Merlynn I had been granted in that place I did not wish to name here, not even in my thought. Indeed, only to Arthur and Morgan had I spoken of it yet at all… True, there had been little time, but I could have told quite a number of folk, and had not, for reasons I could not quite put into words. But I had learned to trust my instincts; and it came to me, also, that the Old North, long a stronghold of Edeyrn, is a place where change comes slower than most elsewhere…
But Arthur and Gweniver had entered the Council chamber, and we all rose to our feet. As I watched them take their chairs at either end of the table, High King and High Queen so practiced now in rule, I felt a stab of pride for my own part in all this.
Morgan seemed to feel it also, for she found my hand and squeezed it. Only Betwyr and I heard her whisper.
"Now we shall see some proper deeds."
* * *
Chapter Six
"Here begins the Book of the Graal.
Here begin the terrors.
Here begin the wonders.
Listen. Hear."
That is how it is written. But I shall tell you how it was. For of course it was nothing like to the way folk have come to think of it in the years since, or will think, centuries on; I must accept that, though I hate it more than I can tell you. But also I must do what I can to change it: As I said earlier on, it has ever been a source to me of amazement and rage that those who know best are often worst attended to.
The sorcerers have long had a maxim: ‘Those who know least talk most; those who know most talk least.’ Perhaps I have, out of love and honor and a desire for dignity and reserve, too long taken this for personal creed; the upshot being that I, who know more about Arthur the man than perhaps anyone else who ever breathed, should be so often discounted by the come-too-latelies and the never-were-theres and the boneheads with invented wish-tales that they deem better than the truth. My stature as bard seems to have little if aught to do with it.
Sometimes I think I might have done better service by all of us had I taken a leaf in action from Queen Athyn’s book: Now she, when evil folk spoke lies and betrayals upon her and her beloved mate, hunted them down one by one; and when she found them she explained to each with great courtesy and clarity of expression (Athyn was ever renowned for both) precisely what offense of theirs had caused her to take such course. And then she had killed them. Sometimes quite inventively. As she herself did put it, with no small irony, they died for the truth—or rather for their lack of respect therefore—and it was their dan and their lessoning that they should do so.
But Athyn, greatly as I admire her, sometimes frightens me—although I must confess her methods have a certain undeniable appeal. Arthur, as I have said elsewhere, all but worshipped her as a goddess, an earthly aspect of the Mor-rian Herself, and took her as his model for the greatness at which he himself did aim. I am cast from lesser mold; but even I have learned a few things from Athyn’s way with truth and with those who choose to defile it…
Any road, you shall hear the truths of the Graal hunt, of this time and of these folk, from one who was there for all of it. If you choose still to believe otherwise, that is your privilege (and stupidity); but only thank the Goddess that Athyn Anfa is not still here to show you the error of your ways…
Gweniver called the Council to order that day, as was her habit more than Arthur’s, and she did so with no ceremony and less patience than I have ever seen her use.
"Two years have been lost to us already," she said with no preamble. "Here today we plan the hunt for the Pair."
Arthur stirred in his chair. "Gwyn has told us, and Taliesin ap Gwyddno confirms it; no need to delay longer."
I sensed attention shift my way and back again, but kept my eyes on Gweniver as Tarian spoke.
"Gwyn’s word was that women, and men of art, should be the chief seekers."
"Indeed," said Gweniver. "And he said also that I myself, with Taliesin, should be the chief architects of that questing, and that the Ard-righ must perforce stand away. As the Ard-righ will doubtless remember?"
That last was a shot whang between the joints of the armor, and I hid a smile.
"He did, and he does," said Arthur, annoyance and resignation both plain in his voice; he wanted so very dearly to be part of this, and it was denied him. "But he said too that warriors in some number would also be needed—if not perhaps the Ard-righ—as the Ard-rian will doubtless recall?"
My smile grew broader, and I hid it behind a judicious cough. Arthur recalled perfectly well what Gwyn had said; I had spent a few minutes before this meeting watching viewtapes of the historic scene of Gwyn and his companions at Turusachan, and the faerie Prince had spelled it out for Arthur in no uncertain terms. Clearly, the Sidhe knew their man…
"No matter," said Gweniver, and glanced up at Morgan before rising to face the room. "It has been deter
mined. There shall be seven companies of seven to be sent forth upon this questing."
She glanced now at me—though certainly we had much to discuss between us, this seemed fine to me, no reason for me to interrupt or change her order, at least not in open Council—but she spoke to be obeyed. Beside her, Tarian began quietly to take notes in her own hand, in addition to the crystal recording made of all such meetings, and the chamber stilled to silence.
"There shall be Companions sent upon this errand; some of those in this very room. For the rest, as Gwyn ap Nudd has bidden, there shall be bards and Druids, Ban-draoi and Fians, brehons and lieges and peers: folk of all clanns and ranks and trades and kindreds. All Keltia shall be represented in this, for it is a matter that concerns all Kelts. I myself shall lead a company, and will have with me Morguenna Pendreic, and Daronwy of Endellion with Roric Davacho her mate, and Taliesin ap Gwyddno now restored to us."
I felt relief so keen I all but fainted. I knew, of course, that I should be named to one of the companies, but had feared lest Morgan and I should be separated. No doubt I could have argued against it, but still, better that the problem had not arisen. Then in the next breath I feared and wondered anew: Why had we not been separated? Would not the quest perhaps be better served, might not it be a better balance for Gweniver to lead one company and Morgan another and I yet a third? Did this mean then—
But Gweniver was speaking again; or began to, before Arthur rather pettishly interrupted her.
"That is but five of your seven, Ard-rian."
"My thanks to the High King to be so well reminded." But she smiled at her husband as she said it. "For six, then, Loherin of Kernow, son of Tryffin and Ysild who are Duke and Duchess of that same; and lastly—" Gweniver paused, deliberately stared straight down the length of the table at her co-ruler and her mate, her gray eyes suddenly as hard as the basalt the table was cut from, and spoke the seventh name. "—Donah, Heir of Aojun."
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