The Hawk's Gray Feather

by Patricia Kennealy-Morrison

  Well, I could not, and did not, at least not so that I would admit; but it had lodged somewhere deep within, beside that other glimpse of Arthur's future I had had on that long-ago night when Daars had perished, and grief and glory ran on together like two yoked stallions, unchecked, unchallenged.

  How even the glory was to come to pass was as yet a mystery, to Arthur as much as to me: But to their everlasting honor, neither Arthur nor Gweniver, so far as I or any knew, ever had any dark or jealous thought as to their infant kinswomen; to fear that Uthyr's daughters might seek someday to supplant their cousins as the King's first heirs of line. Marguessan was elder by a full half-hour, and so she was her father's firstborn; but the law so laboriously explained to me by Merlynn still held, and neither Marguessan nor her sister could alter it even if they would. Gweniver remained Tanista by decree, Arthur Prince of the Name; since the senior titles were already held, the baby princesses had been created instead royal duchesses—Marguessan as Duchess of Eildon, Morgan Duchess of Ys. Ancient titles of the House of Don, and grand enough, but in the end as insubstantial as all the other titles, even—nay, especially—Uthyr's own; for as Arthur himself had so rightly remarked, what point to squabble over the succession to a vacant throne and usurped Ard-tiarnas, when the shadow of Edeyrn still stood between in any case?

  So the time passed at Bargodion, ever to our profit though perhaps we did not always see it straightway. After a time of settling in, we had found our footing among the Druid masters and the other lads, and after our first year there I am happy to say that our missteps were few and not overfar from the Path. To no one's great surprise save, I think, his own, Arthur was proving to be a gifted sorcerer; if not so gifted in magic as the Fians at Coldgates had thought him gifted in generalship. For myself, though I yearned for the years of bard-school that would follow after this time in Glenfhada, I was not far behind Arthur in magic, and in some disciplines fairly surpassed him.

  But the rivalry, though real, was friendly always; whether between us two, or among Grehan and Betwyr and Tryffin and Kei and the rest of our yearmates. I had not thought, before coming here, how vast and varied the scope of Druid learning was in truth. At Daars, and even at Tair Rhamant long since, Merlynn had begun our teaching long before we were even aware that we were being taught: the little cantrips and the smaller divinings, such things as children might learn without fear, though not as games nor playing neither.

  Those pishogues made a firm seating for the real learning that was now upon us: the greater divinings, like the neladoracht, the cloud-vision, by which so long ago I had seen Tair Rhamant destroyed, or the divinings by stone or fire or nicksticks. And the great ranns also: the snaim-draoi, the druid's knot, for binding without cords; the arva-draoi, the druid's fence, for barring without bolt; ranns for healing and ranns for harm, for seeking and for finding, for blessing or for bane.

  We learned too—at least we were taught, which is not always the same thing—the judgment that must ever go with such power; or rather the beginnings of judgment, for that is a thing that one never ceases to learn, Druid or no, from one's first conscious act as a child to one's life's end; and we all of us learn it even better thereafter.

  I would not have you think that we were such marvels of students that our three years at Bargodion were one long road of glory. By no means: To be in pupilage is never easy or simple, and as we advanced from sophisters to the rank of inceptor—the highest and last before our initiation—our struggles grew with our knowledge, as we fought to bring learning into line with aptitude and will.

  "Who would have thought magic to be such a slog?" demanded Tryffin, at the end of one more than usually trying, and tiring, session under Merlynn's goad. "Better I liked it when I knew nothing, and could do everything—or so at least I thought."

  Rueful laughs, small and shamefaced, answered him; all of us had thought his thought, now and formerly. It is so with any skill, I think: Certain it is I have seen it so with bardery, whether another's or my own, or watching Arthur craft some delicate fair thing of silver or gold, or seeing Scathach move through a Fian sword-drill. The more a skill is studied, the less its natural ease and grace can show. Oh, the basic competences must ever be learned, how else can flair become more than mere sleight or facile smoothness? But once the ground-learning is well mastered, 'how' should never be thought on again. Who in first infancy considers the skills of muscle and balance needed simply to walk upright, or, later, what child thinks on the intricate combining of finger-play and mind-play that allows it to scribe words on paper? In my own craft, once the notes and strings and times and voices are learned, bards strive their best to forget them; for in that forgetting lies true mastery, when art is as unthought-of by the artist as breathing is by the body.

  However, first must come the rules, whether they be rules of music or rules of magic or rules by which a babe comes to know that putting one foot before the other is the best way to get where it wishes to go. And for all his good-humored complaints, Tryffin knew it as well as the rest of us—which was to say by now very well indeed.

  "Say you so, Tryff?"

  Arthur had come up behind us all unnoticed; he had been detained some moments by Merlynn after the rest of us were dismissed, and though I shot him a questioning look, I saw naught on his face save his customary composure. But there was something more even so, and before I could open my mouth to ask, or even send my thought to probe his, he was speaking again.

  "Well, however much or little my worthy cousin thinks he may know or can do, I have somewhat to tell you all from one who knows rather better: Merlynn bids me say that all we here have passed and have been found acceptable for initiation." After the instant glad noisy clamor had subsided a little, he added warningly, "That is not all his word: Also Merlynn bids us remember that how acceptable we shall be found in the end depends all on how we face the rite itself.

  Yet even Merlynn's characteristic cautioning could not douse the excitement his other words had kindled, and we carried it with us through the nightmeal and our study-period after. But when I was at last in my own room, preparing myself for sleep, a tap came at the door and I looked up, unsurprised, to see Arthur. His face was clouded, and I thought I knew why…

  "You are feared of the Speiring, now it is upon us, and of what comes after," I said, and after a moment he nodded once sheepishly. Well, and why should he not be; I too was feared of the rite that was, please gods, to make Druids of us. We had learned, in the course of our own studies, that the Ban-draoi rite of first initiation is in form of an immram, a sacred voyage, and the Fianna too, and the bards, have particular rites of their own; but just then it was enough for us that we were asked to face the Speiring—an ancient word meaning asking or questioning—and its sequels.

  "More what comes after the asking, I think," said Arthur after another long pause.

  "We have studied these three years past for just this end," I said, not knowing what he wished to hear me answer. "We are sorcerers in all but the final sealing."

  "Yet still we might fail at that final test."

  Ah… "Undoubtedly some will fail," I agreed. "But why in all the hells do you have this sudden thought that you might be among them? You have been high in the estimations of the masters, and yourself have been master of all the rest of us in almost every discipline and learning. Merlynn himself has spoken often of your gift… Artos, what is on you? Tell me."

  It was not so creditable an effort as others I had put forth what time Arthur had been too shy or too sulky to speak out, but to my surprise—his too—it worked as well as ever, for he turned to me with a look as straight as a sword.

  "Two things, then. The first—well, I have ever seen myself as a warrior more than a wizard, and this you know from of old, Taliesin," he added quickly, as if I might try to gainsay him. "And if I am for war, how can I be certain that magic is not for me simply one more weapon, a little more exotic than most?"

  "You can be certain because it is both tr
ue and not true," I answered at once. "True because magic is a weapon, and has ever been; no shame in using it so. And not true because even a talpa could see that for you magic is far more than a simple tool; and not true still more because you will never wield it as a weapon unless you must—not until a day when it is the only choice left to you."

  Arthur's head, that had been lowered as he listened, came up at that, and his grin flashed then.

  "Therefore let us all hope that day is long in coming… but first let us answer this Asking."

  I did not feel the hood being lifted from my face, only stood there stupid as an ulagaun in the glow of the torches, though the chamber in which I stood was by no means brightly litten.

  Merlynn and other teachers had described this chamber to us many times, so that as I now looked upon it for the first time I felt that I had been here often before. Here were the tall crystal pillars that betokened the Airts, the four sacred quarters; there ran the inlaid ring of gold that marked the riomhall, the magic circle, upon the slated floor; and everywhere the sigil of Druidry—the double shields and the broken rod. I stared at it now as if I had never beheld it: a strange device, the rod passing between the paired shields like the letter Z or a levin-bolt…

  I shook myself a little to clear and focus my mind, spoke to myself as to a fractious colt: Taliesin ap Gwyddno, you are come here before the gods and the Brotherhood to be made Druid. Try then to comport yourself as the child of a chief and fastern to the King that will be… The severity was more in the inner voice than in the words; whatever was wherever, though, it worked well enough—my trembling eased, and I dared to run one quick glance from one side to the other of the place in which I stood.

  It was a great vaulted chamber upon the topmost peak of Bargodion's serrate ridge; for as the Ban-draoi have their holy halls deep beneath the earth, so the Druids build theirs next the sky, or as near as may be. Therefore was it called Ard-na-draoichta, Magic's Height; it was walled and roofed, not open to the heavens as are the ancient nemetons, and, save for the sacred sigil, its polished walls were bare of ornament.

  As in all such places, a bench or low altar stood in the North. Before it now were gathered the senior priests, all white-robed and gold-collared as befitted their rank, while the newest Druids of all, those fellows of mine who had preceded me here this night, were huddled in a little knot in the riomhall's Eastern quarter. Arthur and some others of our friends had all gone before me to their tests, so presumably they were watching now from that Airt, and sending me all the help they could, or dared. But keeping my eyes resolutely averted from them, I drew a deep breath and began.

  First came the nine-times'-measure: I paced round the circle's gold rim three times sunwise, three times widder-shins, three times again to sunwise, each pace stepped off to a beat of my own heart.

  When I halted, it was in the North. A senior master, one Tannian by name, stepped forward to face me; he was high among the Pheryllt, and the collar gleamed gold at his throat. Though he made no move, I suddenly found myself unable to stir, every joint and bone and muscle and tendon turned to frozen stone.

  "Hear thou the Seven Questions that the holy Brendan hath ordained thou shouldst answer, sith that thou be Draoicht in truth."

  The ancient sonorous words of the High Gaeloch rolled out above my bowed head; when the questions came, they came from all quarters and all Airts, and not from one throat alone.

  A voice first out of the East: "What is the highest wisdom of man?"

  And with the greatest effort of my life I lifted my head, and strove to make tongue and lips and throat frame the seven answers. "To be able to work evil, and not to work it."

  From the West: "What is the greatest folly of man?"

  "To wish a common evil, which he cannot work."

  Out of the South: "What is the worst principle of man?"

  "Falsehood."

  A voice in the North: "What is the best principle of man?"

  "Correctness."

  From above me: "Who is the poorest man?"

  "He who is not content with his own soul."

  From beneath me: "Who is the richest man?"

  "He who grudges not greatness in others."

  And last a voice that seemed to come from within me, from all Airts at once: "What is the noblest goodness of man?"

  And I whispered, "Justice."

  And the voices were silent, and asked no question more.

  And in the silence I stood shivering again. Though I had been drilled long and hard and often on those ritual answers, at the first word of the first question it seemed to me that my memory had been wiped clean, as a chalkboard may be by a pass of an arm. And in that sudden blankness it seemed too that I had had to pull the words up from a deep well, and I was cold and tired and a little short of breath. But the thing had barely begun, and the Speiring was the least of the trials I would face here…

  My answers had won me a supporter: Tannian took his place at my left side, and walked beside me to the South, where the second part of the rite would be faced—the Seachtanna, the seven tests. As there had been seven questions, and seven answers, so now would there be seven tests, and if I failed at any I failed all.

  I do not recall much of this ordeal; for ordeal it was and no mistake, to prove both body and soul. There was the Collar of Morin, that would tighten and choke the false swearer; the Adze of Mochta, that would burn the tongue of the false speaker; the Coire-fior, the Cauldron of Truth, whose boiling waters would strip the flesh from the bones of the unworthy candidate.

  I know now that no such tortures or cruelties would have befallen, save in the candidate's mind only; the Brotherhood is not barbarous, to cause to suffer or maim, and though at the moment of testing the pains seem most grievously real and terrible, they are but glamourie. But in those moments—as the Collar closed around my throat, as the tip of my tongue touched the Adze, as my hand went into the Cauldron's seething water—I thought very much otherwise.

  Still, I felt a flush of relief when those first three tests were past—and passed; and I faced the remaining four with confidence renewed. Next came the Tre-Lia Mothair, the Three Dark Stones—though truth to tell only one of the three was black. The way of it was this: A small keeve was brought of fine sooty ash from one of the nearby fumaroles, and three small stones—one white, one black, one speckled—were buried deep within. I thrust my hand into the gritty ash, felt the three stones; felt one leap and quiver under the touch of my fingers, and withdrew it, and that stone was the white stone.

  The Crannchur, the Lot-casting, was a like test with wood and water, and the larn-Luchta, the Iron of Luchta, was a third. Last of all came the Arisem-ac-allawr, the Waiting by the Altar: nine times round the black basalt altar-stone, then a draught of Cormac's Cup, that held the sacred water over which mighty ranns had been spoken. So I paced round the stone to stand in the West, and Tannian held the cup to my lips while I drank, and I was not dead having done so.

  But nor was I done, not yet: There was yet a journey to be gone, and though it was not so far a faring as the Ban-draoi immram, nor so fearsome as the Fian's test of soul, it carried its own fears and perils, in a different place, in the lands of Dobhar and lar-Dobhar.

  Come with me if you come at all: Come first then to the Bridge of Dread; cross the sword-edge though it slice your feet to the bone and you walk bleeding in your own steps. But if ever you have given hose or shoon, sit you down and put them on, and cross the bridge as you will for you may pass.

  From Bridge of Dread when you have passed, come next to Tippermuir, the Plain of the Well; stand at the well's lip and see the water as it rises close and falls away just as you would drink, for you are parched from your journey. But if ever you have given drink to those who thirsted, the water will never shrink from your cupped hands but leap as a fountain to fill them.

  From Tippermuir when you have passed, come next to the Dismal Plain, one half of which is so cold that a traveller's feet will freeze to the grou
nd, and the other half the ground thereof grows grass like spears, to prick you to the bare bone. But if ever you have given meat to those who hungered, a friendly stranger will give you there an apple and a wheel, and following these across that plain you will strike a fair broad road, and that road will lead you home.

  It takes longer to tell of it than to tread it, that Path: Before I knew the time had passed, I was back among my white-robed Brothers in Ard-na-draoichta. And now I had two supporters: As Tannian stood on my left, so Merlynn himself stood now upon my right.

  They were there to stand with me in the North for the thing I had dared and fared and fought to win: the oath-taking. It is not something I can speak of even here, even now. If you yourself have taken initiation in any MysterySchool—and all Mysteries are the same Mysteries, on all and any worlds; that is the greatest Mystery of all—you will know, and remember, and understand. If not yet, then you will come to know in time, so be content… Thus I vowed, and was stripped of my candidate's gown, and the white robe placed upon me. I took then my place in the quarter where stood the new Brothers, beside Arthur and Grehan and Betwyr who had been made Druid before me, and together we watched Kei and Tryffin and the others who came after.

  The initiations past, the next days were filled with leave-takings: The very school itself was taking leave of its students and its own location. It had been decided by the senior Pheryllt that sixty years in Glenfhada was long enough, and it might be unwise to press our luck any longer. Though there had come no word from the spies or even a thought or dream or Seeing that our secret place had been discovered, the masters did not care to chance it; Edeyrn had strange ways of learning secrets, and not all his informers were so easy to spot as were his Ravens.