I had thought of leaving, many times before now, and always somehow the time had not felt right. Whether it was that I could not bring myself to leave Morgan behind me, or Arthur, or all of it together, the life that I had known, had made for myself, all the way from Gwaelod, I do not know.
But just as before I had known surely that the time was not yet, I knew as surely now that it was; and a fortnight or two after Gweniver’s barrowing at Ni-maen I went to my nephew the King to tell him of my decision.
Arawn protested long and fluently and sincerely. He had been hard hit by his mother’s death, and I was the only kinsman of his parents’ generation he had left. Indeed, for a while I thought he would not scruple to command me, as my Ard-righ, to stay where I was; and he was mollified in the end only by the solemn assurance that I would not be vacating the immediate neighborhood.
In truth, I would be moving only across the street—or the square, rather; to Seren Beirdd, where the new Chief Bard, Bronwen Lanihorne, had felt it her personal privilege to offer me my beloved teacher Elphin’s old rooms. He had been her immediate predecessor, and when he went with Arthur and came not home again she had kept his place empty for him, out of her respect. Which was surpassed, apparently, only by her respect for me; for now his rooms would be mine, and I was well pleased. But she had been a good student.
As for Gweniver: Well, there is little I can say that I have not said before. She and Arthur, Morgan and I, we had made a foursquare keep and had held it against all comers save death alone. Her death—and she was deeply mourned throughout Keltia—seemed to me simply to put the seal on the past. She was the last of the Companions save myself; I was alone now, and as if that had been the signal something had long been awaiting, as if some trackway or channel had been cleared within me, something came to me very soon thereafter that had been long on the way, and now was set free to run.
On my last night before beginning to move my things to Seren Beirdd—well, I had been living at the palace full fifty years or more, there was rather a lot to be shifted, and I had yet to decide the disposition of Morgan’s things also—I felt those stirrings begin that I knew well.
Any maker knows them. You will be sitting doing some chore or other, or nothing, and then coming in from nowhere will be a sort of insistent tugging that cannot be ignored, be you never so absorbed or so idle. And you will go to the instrument of your craft—harp or pen or brush or hammer—as a lover goes to the beloved. And then—the clearest and best I can put it is that you will be used. Something will take you up to do its will in just the same way as you do take up your instrument. You are a means, no more, to set down what needs, what wills, to take form; and which has done you the inestimable honor of choosing you to do it. This is no complaint; nay, I loved this! It is what artists pray for and hope for, and sometimes delude themselves and their following into believing has been granted them. But you—and your following should you be good enough and lucky enough to have one—will always know the difference.
It came, I say. And it came to me.
Twelve hours later, I seemed to be myself again, and looked around me, a little startled and dazed, and oddly sad. I was sprawled on the floor of my chamber, where I do not even recall resorting; my back ached miserably, my arms were numb from fingers to shoulders, I was famished and parched, shivering, cramped in every limb and cross as an ice-bear waked before the thaw. But I was also transported. I had a song. I had the song; or perhaps it had me. But it had a name, and a dan of its own, if Gwyn were to be believed, and there is no reason he should not be.
But it was here. I stared down at it, still staggered by the gift. This was not to be shown to anyone just yet—I felt a far-off pang as I remembered that there was no one living to whom I wished to show it; and as for the dead, they had seen it already, had perhaps even sent it—it was still a thing for itself and myself alone. But I looked hungrily and happily at what I had been given (and aye, it is a gift, but not my gift), and I felt that incomparably proud and humble thrill any maker feels, when he or she has correctly heard that which the Awen—and each craft and calling has an Awen of its own—has been saying, and correctly set it down.
I touched the paper again. "Treithi Annuvin,’" I said softly, as to a lover or a child. And spoke its name again, this time in the common Gaeloch.
"‘The Spoils of Annwn.’"
I took it first to Arawn my nephew. Though at first we had not been so close as I was to his elder halfsister Donah, over the years we had changed that, and he for his part had come to look on me as a second father; which was good and fitting, since I was after all his godsfather as well as his namesake. But he was also High King now.
He received me in Arthur’s old solar overlooking the rose gardens, and as we stood back from our embrace I looked at him. And gave that laugh which is also a sob and a shake of the head, for so like was he to his father that for an instant I could not speak. He understood at once, and laughed himself.
"I do not see it, not so much," he confessed, smiling. "But so many say it who should know, so there it is."
"It sits well on you, Ard-righ," I said ceremoniously, my use of the title a quite deliberate one, and he colored a little.
"What, my father’s looks?"
"That; but the High Kingship." But the last thing I wished was to unsettle him; he was a sensitive and generous soul, and though he strove to hide it, the death of his mother, with whom he had ever had a close and loving bond, had deeply shaken him. I was the only senior member of the House of Don left—there was Gerrans, of course, and Gwain, and Donah and Majanah, but few others indeed—and I felt for Arthur’s sake and Gwen’s that I must stand as surrogate parent here; and Arawn himself seemed eager for the closeness.
"I have a thing to show you," I said then, drawing a small book forth from beneath my tunic. He took it from my hand, exclaiming over the fine blue leather binding stamped with Gwynedd’s silver stag—he was his father’s son there, keenly alive to craftsmanship of any sort—and riffled carefully through the thick parchment pages.
"It is most fair! What is it? Of your composing, I am sure—I stared at the pages for a moment before I replied. "The key to the future kingdom; the map to your father’s return."
He looked sharply up at me—again that old glint of Arthur’s—and went a shade paler.
"In what way, just so?" he asked carefully. I smiled suddenly. "In this way." And I began to read. It had not seemed in the writing as it did in the reading—any bard will tell you that—but more so even than usual, even more than honest modesty allowed, I felt as I rolled out the sonorous phrases that Taliesin Glyndour had had really very little to do with this chaunt after all…
"‘Three times the fullness of Prydwen we went into it.
Except seven, none returned from Caer Sidi.
Am I not a candidate for fame, to be heard in the chaunting?
In Caer Pedryvan four times revolving,
The Shout above the Abyss, when was first it heard?
Is this not the Cup of Kerridwen Rhen,
Ridged round its edge with pearls?
It gives no life to a coward, nor to one forsworn.
A sword of light to a seeker shall be given,
And before the portals of Uffern the horns of lights hall burn.
And when we went with Arthur in his splendid labors,
Except seven, none returned from Caer Vediwid.
Am I not a candidate for renown, to be heard in the singing?
In Caer Pedryvan, in the Isle of the Strong Door,
Where twilight and black dark come together,
Is not bright blood the guest-drink offered?
The point of the lance of battle lies lapped in fumes of sleep.
When shall it waken?
And the bronze lid of Fal’s eye, when shall it loose its light?
Three times the fullness of Prydwen were we that went on sea,
What time we went with Arthur of glorious memory,
Except
seven, none returned from Caer Rigor.
Am I not a candidate for peace, to be heard in the harping?
I give no praise to the lords of swords,
For beyond Caer Wydyr they saw not
Arthur’s might.
In gear of battle stood they upon the walls,
But hard it was to speak with their watchman,
Though their captain had fair words for ours.
Thrice the freight of Fairface were we that went with Arthur;
Save seven, none returned from Caer Coronach.’
I glanced up at dwned’s end, to see how this was falling upon him, and hesitated in continuing: Arawn’s face was white and taut, and his long strong swordsman’s fingers so convulsively gripped the stem of the silver goblet he held that I could see the metal bend before my eyes. But he dragged his eyes back from whatever they had been beholding, and nodded at me to go on.
"‘Shall we not be candidates for rebirth, to be heard in the telling?
The Answerer answered, the blade reborn.
Complete shall be the prison of Gweir in Caer Sidi,
Through the spite of Pwyll and Pryderi.
Few before him went into it, the sea’s blue chains to hold him fast.
Before the Spoils of Annwn shall he sing,
And until the end of time shall he be bard for it.
Three times the fullness of Prydwen we went into it;
Except seven, none returned from Caer Sidi.
Thrice the freight of Fairface were we that went with Arthur;
Seven alone returned from Caer Sidi.’"
I ceased my chaunt, and drew breath, and did not look at Arawn. It seemed that the words had called all the light out of the room, leaving us in a circle of faint brightness cast by the crystals on the table between us. I dared a glance at my nephew, but his face was in shadow, and he offered no word.
"I have written it—or it chose to be written—in the high style of the riogh-bardain," I ventured. "So that its truths and secrets will be veiled to the casual reader, or one who reads out of mere curiosity. Only the trained mind and heart shall find the hidden guidewords; only a sorcerer shall know how to act upon them. And that one, we have the word of many, shall be the one whose dan it is to do so."
Across the table Arawn stirred and seemed to come back to himself, and as he leaned forward into the light, I reeled within myself. Like to Artos he had been before; just this instant he was Arthur… But he did not note, was intent on the meaning of what he had just heard.
"Uncle—’ He spread his hands helplessly, and now he was Arawn again.
"I know," I said, to help him. "I felt the same. I did not make this, amhic; it made itself through me. But the tale is there, the tale you know—
And I led him through it, line by line: told him how the sea of the poem was in truth the Morimaruse; how the caers were the places we had gone to in Prydwen’s last sailing; how the horns of light, and Uffern, were but poetic bynames for the great fire-mount in which Prydwen had buried herself and those in her.
"But ‘thrice the freight of Fairface’?" asked Arawn at last.
"When we raided Fomor—Caer Rigor and Caer Pedryvan—and we took off the prisoners of Clero," I said steadily, "they added twofold to our numbers, so Prydwen, which is ‘Fairface’ in the bardic speech, carried thrice her battle portage. Some nine hundred souls in all."
"And seven alone returned—from Caer Sidi."
"Again the Morimaruse," I said. "Spiral Castle—you have no idea what it looked like…"
"Nay," he said quietly. "But I see it in dreams anight, as did the Queen my mother." He reached across the table and took the little book from my hands. "And this last dwned? Who are these folk you speak of, Gweir and Pwyll and Pryderi? And why is Gweir their captive?"
I brightened a little at the question. "I have not the smallest idea. That is purest prophecy, and I do not argue nor ask small quibbling queries; I take it and set it down and am grateful."
Arawn smiled unwillingly, still paging and repaging through the volume. "Whence came this?" he asked suddenly. "If you only made the poem last night—"
Now it was my turn to smile. "Morgan had some dozens of these made for me, one birthday a while past. Blank books, bound with the arms of our House—I filled most of them with love poetry for her. But I had yet some left, and I spent the night in writing out fair copies of the poem into several of these. This one is for you; Arwenna shall have one, and Donah, and Gerrans and your cousins of Lleyn and Kernow, and the Bardic Library." I broke off, for Arawn’s face showed the shining tracks of tears in the sconcelight.
"It made it real for me," he said presently, "in a way I had not previously felt it. But uncle"—here he leaned forward and grasped my hands, his eyes fixed on mine—"shall it be so? Will one come to find him? Can we be sure of it?"
I tightened my fingers on his. "As sure as we can be of aught dan sends us, amhic. But these were spoils—the Treasures—and Artos reived them from Annwn, and took them to Annwn; and from Annwn shall they be brought back when time is."
He nodded, and did not smile, only ran his finger lightly over the silver-stamped stag of Don. I felt a great wave of love and pity for him; he was so young to be High King, and to have come to it in such a way… And he had so few round him to help and share; where Arthur had had so many, and such as they had been—
"One thing more, Ard-righ," I said aloud, and Arawn’s head came up like a hound’s who hears a stick snap on the path without. "I have planned to write histories of the Companions, and of Arthur and Gweniver, and in them I shall have to say somewhat of that which we all know to be truth—"
"You mean my father’s death in Prydwen with the Companions," said Arawn calmly. "What more need we give out? You and the other six who returned to tell the few of us here—we have kept the secret safe all these years."
"And soon there will be none left to tell it, once you and Gerrans and Sgilti and Anghaud are gone," I agreed. "Even so, I think a touch on that web may be in order."
The King smiled. "What did you have in mind, Pen-bardd?"
"Oh, just a judicious clouding of the truth." I rose to leave.
"But be not too surprised should you begin to hear tales of how Arthur the King sleeps in an island across far dark seas, with all his Companions round him; sleeps until they shall be awakened, when Keltia has need of them."
"I like it well," said Arawn softly. "Would that it were true—but you will tell me that it is."
"Aye so."
"Aye so." He was silent, running his thumb over the emerald of his seal ring. "And the name of this island? For surely you shall not be calling it by its right name—"
"Its name is Avilion," I said, though how I had known that name I could not tell you, any more than I could tell him. "In the Gaeloch, folk will turn it as Avallinn."
* * *
Chapter Thirty-five
So I moved to Seren Beirdd, where I settled swiftly and happily into Elphin Carannoc’s old chambers, whitewashed and airy, tucked into one of the turrets that made the points of the star that was Star of the Bards; and with a view scarcely inferior to my old one in the palace across the square.
And as I had told Arawn my nephew, I began to write. Not so much music, not these days, though I did enough duty on Frame of Harmony to keep the harper’s calluses upon my fingertips. Nay; my task these days was history, and I did my best to chronicle it aright, as I did know it. Oh, to be sure, in time to come, ignorant folk who think they know better who in fact know naught at all will begin poking sgians into my accounts; but those are just the sort of folk who could not be told the truth from the truth’s own living mouth, and who would not know it from a bull’s backside to begin with. They are not the ones for whom I have written; they are not good enough.
But this particular chronicle, of which you are drawing near the end at last—and I salute you as fellow Companion, for you have been with us all our long road—will not, I fancy, be found for a good
many years after I am gone. Decades, centuries, millennia; perhaps not even before I am come again as has been promised; and just to be the more certain of that I shall take steps to ensure that it shall be so… I spoke just now of the truth, and folk’s fitness to hear it. Well, the truths contained herein are not for the mass of folk to hear until they are full ready, until they are capable of accepting the truth of Arthur the King as he was, not as the myth in guise of which they choose to see him, cobbling the lie together out of their own, seemingly everlasting, need and wishing.
Not they alone are guilty: We see it too in the tales my own mother brought with her from Earth—I wept to see Arthur ridiculed and Gweniver slandered—and those were only prophecies, shadow foretellings of what would come to be. And so I have written this, as I wrote all the other histories that are perhaps not so intimate a telling as this but truth even so: the Deeds of Arthur, the Life of Morgan—who is being called Morgan Magistra even now by the folk (and who would slap them senseless for it were she here to do so). But better I to tell her story, our story, than those not even born when it unfolded; or who, if they were there for it, were all the same not there for it… I am only a bard. I can command only the words I use in my work, at least when they are not commanding me. And though the true index of any man is the manner in which he does, or shirks, his work, I cannot order the effect that work of mine shall have on others, nor what form my work shall take in the minds of those who read it. Much to my displeasure; but there it is, and I have better things to do than fret about a thing I cannot change.
After I had been some years at Seren Beirdd, I was joined there by a young student who showed most promising: a good ear for music, and as good a one for words. Though I say it perhaps who should not: for the student was my granddaughter Cathelin, youngest of Gerrans and Cristant.
Which was not to say the lass got any special treatment, mind, merely because her grandsir now seemed to be regarded as some sort of national treasure. Still, having the Pen-bardd of Keltia for syra-wyn was very like more an advantage than not; but Cathelin, small and fierce and brown-haired, like a little woods-wolf, to her credit never traded on the link.
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